


A Bad Case of Necromancy

by TheGirlDeepInThought



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Potterlock, Shermione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlDeepInThought/pseuds/TheGirlDeepInThought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is impossibly back from the dead and seems more hell-bent than ever on destroying Sherlock's life. Mycroft uses his connections to seek out the expert on the only possible explanation for his resurrection. Enter Hermione Granger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Burn

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello, all. Thought I'd give Potterlock a try. This is a kind of teaser chapter for what is to come. I hope you enjoy it.

He had nothing left. Nothing.

His family despised him. His cause was dead. The public scorned him.

He had fallen so very far.

He was decrepit, miserable, alone ...

And angry.

So very angry.

He wanted to see them all burn, to burn them all like he was burning.

He wanted the whole of Britain up in smoke: not just Wizarding Britain, no; Muggle Britain and its filth, too.

He would bring it all crumbling down from the top.

He knew the key players on both sides. From his own world, one would think it would be Potter, and certainly, the man was an important piece, just as the Minister was an important piece. But the chess master, the one who moved them, who had their ears and so many others ...

... was the wretched Mudblood.

And though he was slightly less familiar with the world of Muggle politics, he found that an Imperius here and there on the right people worked wonders.

He also found that the British Parliament was much the same as the Ministry. The PM, despite being the elected leader, was really not the one in charge, the one pulling strings.

No; that privilege belonged to a man named Mycroft Holmes. And this Holmes had one starkly evident weakness: his younger brother, Sherlock.

And then, to make the whole thing even sweeter, it seemed Sherlock Holmes had a nemesis, a criminal mastermind with an expansive network and a passion for both theatrics and chaos: one Jim Moriarty.

One Jim Moriarty who just so happened to be inconveniently dead.

Then again, he thought, looking around at his bleak and dilapidated surroundings,

nothing's permanent.


	2. Moriarty Risen

Mycroft Holmes was not happy - but that wasn't exactly unusual. Mycroft Holmes was generally not a happy man. Happiness was rather irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, in his opinion. No; it was more accurate to say that he was displeased. Displeased and a little bit, dare he say, nervous.

It seemed that Jim Moriarty was indeed back from the dead, which was supposed to be utterly impossible. For one thing, Sherlock had seen the man shoot himself, had seen his body drop to the ground, blood, skull fragments, and grey matter strewn behind him across the cement rooftop of St. Bart's. For another, the body had been picked up by Mycroft's own men, subjected to an autopsy for everyone's peace of mind, and dumped in an unmarked plot in the same cemetery where Sherlock's doppelganger was buried.

Moriarty had been well and truly dead.

So, naturally, when Mycroft had seen that infamous video broadcasting over every television network in England ("Did you miss me?"), he had initially thought it to be a hoax organized by an upstart criminal with a penchant for melodrama, looking to gain attention. At the time, it had been almost welcome, in that it was the perfect excuse to call Sherlock back from what may as well have been a death sentence. Of course, Mycroft would have arranged something had Sherlock been sent away, but it was nice to be spared the effort.

And then Moriarty had been seen. He'd made a point of it, too. The man had been caught on the security footage of the Museum of London at two in the morning, dancing through an exhibition appropriately named "Crime Throughout the Ages".

He'd shot six security guards dead, smashed several display cases into glittering cascades of broken glass, upset bedecked mannequins, and pocketed more than a few of the precious trinkets from the exhibit. After he'd managed all of that, Moriarty had gone on to deliberately press his hand onto the surface of a fire extinguisher cabinet, leaving a perfect set of fingerprints, all the while looking up to give one of the security cameras a wink and an exaggerated bow. He then proceeded to open the cabinet, setting off the fire alarm in the process, and with impressive strength, he'd thrown the extinguisher into the camera, forcibly cutting off its feed.

They'd run the fingerprints and they'd turned up a match, and if that hadn't been enough, one of the security guards whom Moriarty had killed had been found with a note pinned to his breast pocket reading, "Tell the Virgin I'm back, Big Brother."

Begrudgingly, Mycroft had done as instructed, because the alternative was letting Sherlock find out about the break-in from the telly, and once he found out who was responsible for it and that Mycroft hadn't told him immediately, the elder brother would never hear the end of it. As it turned out, that hadn't really mattered; Sherlock had had a fit, regardless. He was adamant that it was impossible that Moriarty had returned, but once he'd looked over the footage, scanned the note, and seen the fingerprint analysis, Mycroft could tell that the seed of doubt had been planted. His younger brother had been manic ever since, wearing on his patience as well as that of Dr. Watson, his wife, and Mrs. Hudson. They were all worried for him, Mycroft included, if he was honest with himself.

Mycroft was very worried.

Because if it was true that Moriarty was back, and the evidence did seem to suggest it, then that left only one feasible possibility for his reappearance in Mycroft's mind: magic.

Yes, really: magic.

Which is why he was currently in the PM's office at 10 Downing Street, seated in an armchair across from the fireplace. The Prime Minister was abroad visiting Canada at present, but one three minute phone call with the man had been enough to see Mycroft shown through to his office, assured by the head of Number 10's detail of an hour of complete privacy. And so, Mycroft sat and waited.

At precisely half two, the flames in the hearth turned a shocking shade of emerald and Mycroft calmly rose to his feet.

"Mr. Holmes?" called a familiar baritone, which reverberated off of the chimney walls.

"Minister Shacklebolt," greeted Mycroft. "Do come through."

"Thank you," the voice replied steadily and a moment later, a tall, bald, dark-skinned man stepped out of the fireplace and onto the welcome mat. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored blue-grey suit that was paired with a violet dress shirt, a blue-and-purple striped tie, and a shining pair of Oxfords. Between his eyes, his stature, and his countenance, the man radiated steadfastness and quiet power, and while that might have intimidated a lesser man, Mycroft was just relieved to be dealing with someone competent; he'd heard horror stories about some of the previous Ministers of Magic.

"It's nice to see you again, Mr. Holmes," said Minister Shacklebolt, extending a hand which Mycroft promptly took; the two exchanged a firm handshake. "I'm just sorry that we're meeting under these circumstances."

"You and I both, Minister," replied Mycroft. Before either of them could say anything more, however, the fire flared a second time and a woman of average height stepped out of the viridian flames. She wore a crisp, well-fitted, black trouser suit with a white, collared shirt, no tie, and a pair of sleek, red heels. Her posture was excellent and her stance was confident but tense as she acclimated to her surroundings. The woman's brown hair was pulled back into an elegant twist and her face had very little makeup on it apart from a slick of cherry red lipstick on her mouth.

When she turned her brown eyes on Mycroft, the man had to restrain himself from lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

This woman is sharp, thought Mycroft. And not only that, but she has been through hell and back ... and is she deducing me right now?

What surprised Mycroft even more came in the next heartbeat, after her eyes had pierced his own and had - he felt quite certain - dissected him in a second flat. Quite visibly, her razor-sharp scrutiny faded and a cautious but genuine kind of warmth lit up her features.

She smiled, revealing a set of perfect teeth (her parents are dentists, noted Mycroft), and she offered him her hand.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she said, and while her tone was professional, it had an underlying sincerity to it as she continued, "It's lovely to meet you.

"I'm Hermione Granger."


	3. 1 Minister and 2 Vaguely Titled Officials

"Ah," Mycroft murmured, understanding setting in. "The Hermione Granger of the Second Wizarding War, I presume?" Her eyes widened in mild surprise and she arched an eyebrow. "I was read in fairly comprehensively seven years ago," he told her.

Ms. Granger's eyes sparkled. "Well then," she replied, amused, "I'm not aware of any others. It's a rather uncommon name, after all."

Mycroft chuckled and smiled at her."Greek mythology or Shakespeare?" he asked.

She beamed at him. "Shakespeare. My parents adored the theatre." Mycroft noticed her use of past tense and felt an uncharacteristic hint of sadness, but he made no outward recognition of having picked up on it. Instead, he simply said, "Please, Ms. Granger, Minister Shacklebolt, take a seat. Can I offer you some tea?"

"That would be appreciated," replied the Minister, Ms. Granger nodding in agreement, the both of them moving to sit down; Ms Granger chose an elegant, cream-coloured settee and the Minister, the leather armchair next to Mycroft's. "It's been a stressful day on our side of things," the latter admitted as Mycroft went to prepare a tea tray.

"I'm afraid the Minister is understating things," said Ms. Granger with a fond look at the man in question, who hummed in acquiescence and gave a small smile. "Shall I pour?" she asked lightly as Mycroft returned and set the tray down on a coffee table positioned between the three officials' seats.

"Thank you," said Mycroft. "One milk and two sugars for me, please."

"Of course," replied Ms. Granger genially. As she set about doing so, she continued, "So, Mr. Holmes: we hear that there's a matter of national security that you wish to discuss with us. I may be wrong, but I'll ask, regardless: does this have anything to do with the Museum of London?"

Mycroft settled back into his armchair, accepting the cup and saucer that she handed him. He took a sip and smiled inwardly; the tea was perfect. "Yes, Ms. Granger, it is. Was our cover-up too obvious?"

"Oh, not necessarily," said Ms. Granger, a thoughtful expression on her face. "It's more that I know what to look for with things like this. It was mainly the lack of any kind of security footage or description of the intruder that drew my suspicion."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes; I would have preferred to keep it out of the media altogether, but it seems that a family member of one of the security guards killed at the museum is in the press, and so the rest, of course," he remarked dryly," is history. The police, however, were much more discreet - not to mention that the Detective Inspector is a friend of my brother - and thus, the security footage from the incident is now safe with me."

Minister Shacklebolt frowned. "So it's the person on the footage who concerns you ... but typically, if the culprit is a dangerous criminal, your government issues an alert to the public." He paused, took a sip of tea, and then added slowly, "Which means that the damage that would be done if the identity of this person got out is potentially even worse than the damage they can cause with most people unawares."

"Which is saying something," interjected Ms. Granger, "because he murdered six innocent people in cold blood." Mycroft remained silent and she considered him warily. "Mr. Holmes ... With whom exactly are we dealing? Because this doesn't bode well. And to be quite frank, I can tell that you're anxious, and I don't think that much shakes a man like you. So out with it. Tell us why we're here."

Mycroft was slightly surprised by the woman's straightforwardness, but not unpleasantly so. Ms. Granger, he thought, was an ally in the making.

He contemplated his guests carefully for a moment, double checking his deductions and ascertaining their trustworthiness. Satisfied with what he saw in them, he sighed and set his tea down on the table, folding his hands together on his lap. "Have either of you heard of Jim Moriarty?"

Minister Shacklebolt's brow furrowed and Ms. Granger's spine stiffened slightly.

"Your brother's dead nemesis," intoned Ms. Granger, "The consulting criminal who posed as Richard Brook - rather transparent, calling himself that, incidentally," she mused, "But still. Wasn't it his face used in that delightful hoax video a couple of weeks ago?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, "although we're not so sure about it being a hoax, after all." Mycroft sighed. "It was him on the footage."

The witch and wizard exchanged a troubled glance. "Didn't he shoot himself through the mouth?" asked the Minister.

"Yes," replied Mycroft. "My brother witnessed it happen and my men were the ones to inspect the scene. There is no doubt of that." The other two looked even more perturbed.

"Could it be an impostor?" questioned Minister Shacklebolt.

"I have sufficient evidence to suggest otherwise," said Mycroft, "but I thought that there may be some kind of magic that would allow for the quality of the impersonation, if it is one, and if that is the case, then I require your assistance in apprehending the witch or wizard responsible. If it helps, I can take you through what we have collected." Ms. Granger motioned for him to continue, and so Mycroft expounded upon everything that the police, Sherlock, various hired experts, and his own observations of the scene had concluded.

Ms. Granger looked to be deep in thought, mulling over the data with a slight frown as she listened and sipped at her tea. Once Mycroft had finished, she looked significantly worried.

"It could be Polyjuice Potion," she muttered to herself, "because that would cover the fingerprints and the DNA samples, and then ... a magical forgery would be able to fool a non-magical graphologist if done properly, and mannerisms can be learnt and made easier to mimic through magic, I suppose."

Ms. Granger abruptly set her tea down and stood. "Would you mind terribly if I paced?" Both men shook their heads and so she stood and began to walk back and forth on her side of the coffee table, continuing her previous train of thought aloud. "So perhaps Polyjuice. It's a potion that allows the drinker to take on the appearance of a person from whom they've obtained a DNA sample like a hair or a fingernail," she explained for Mycroft's sake, "and if I can get my hands on the blood sample the police have collected from the broken glass, I'll be able to analyze it and tell you for sure one way or another."

"I can get it for you easily, Ms. Granger," offered Mycroft.

"Excellent," she replied with a brief smile before sobering once more. "But somehow ... I don't quite know. The personal quality of the note seems a bit more difficult to explain if we go with the Polyjuice hypothesis. And then there's the motive to consider. Why would a wizard be targeting you and your brother specifically, Mr. Holmes, and, perhaps more to the point, why in such a convoluted way?" she asked. "Posing as a dead criminal? It doesn't make sense. It would take too much effort to keep up the pretense, and to what end? The impostor would have to have known that eventually, the DMLE would get involved if there was such a threat to the Statute of Secrecy. I mean," Ms. Granger laughed, "did they think we wouldn't notice a dead man walking? Hones-" She froze mid-word.

Mycroft and Minister Shacklebolt moved to stand but she waved them off and held up her index finger, clearly asking them for a moment to think. Both men slowly sat back down into their armchairs, but they didn't take their eyes off of Ms. Granger's pale face.

"Oh, not good," she breathed, and Mycroft could virtually see the gears turning in her head, "Potentially very not good." She turned to look at the Minister. "This could be Necromancy, Kingsley," she told him. "And if it is, then this just got a lot more complicated and even more dangerous."

Minister Shacklebolt's whole demeanour darkened and he let out a slow breath.

"Necromancy, as in black magic? Recalling people from death?" asked Mycroft, his expression wary.

"In essence," answered Ms. Granger. "It's one of the oldest and darkest branches of magic. Not something you want to mess with; believe me." She walked back over to the settee and took a seat, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees and put her head in her hands for a moment. Face obscured from view, she continued, "If a Necromancer has revived Moriarty, then they can keep him alive for as long as they wish so long as they're alive, and not only that, but Moriarty will be impossible to kill," the witch explained, "because he is undead."

She looked back up at the men across from her with a grimace on her face. "But what worries me even more than that," she added darkly, "is the fact that it's too convenient that I'm here to tell you this right now."

"Let me guess," Mycroft said dryly, "You are the Ministry's resident expert on Necromancy, or something of the sort."

Ms. Granger sighed. "Something of the sort," she echoed him. She looked to the Minister, who gestured for her to go on, and so she did, looking thoroughly tired. "My Ministry title is long, vague, and most importantly, boring, but to put it simply, I function as something of a special contractor. I go where I am needed when I am needed; not unlike yourself, Mr. Holmes." The two exchanged a commiserating smile.

"In between such periods, however," she continued, "I work in the Department of Mysteries as what is known as an Unspeakable. We tackle some of the oldest, biggest, and strangest mysteries and branches of magic that exist. I can't go into detail about any of it - hence the title - but I can tell you that I did study Death Magic for a significant amount of time, and one of its strands is Necromancy.

"Then, on top of that, I wasn't originally going to be accompanying the Minister today," Ms. Granger said, melancholy in her tone.

"Yes, I wondered about that," noted Mycroft, "but I assumed that you were stepping in for Mr. Thomas because of the potential confidentiality of the security threat."

The Minister shook his head. "Mr. Thomas is very discreet. His security clearance was going to be raised so that he could attend this meeting - a promotion of sorts - but he's been missing for over a week. And it's fairly common knowledge that when one of the Department Heads is incapacitated, Ms. Granger can and will stand in for them."

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache beginning to tap dance on his temples.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes," said Ms. Granger, "it seems that whatever this is, it has been tailored for you and I specifically - "

"- And the stakes seem to be the stability of Great Britain at large, although this has the potential to have global ramifications, if the Statute of Secrecy is breached," finished Mycroft. "Fantastic."

The three officials sat in silence for an indeterminate amount of time. Three cups of tea grew cold on the coffee table.

Mycroft was the first to disturb the quiet. "Ms. Granger, how would you be able to tell if this is indeed the work of a Necromancer?"

Ms. Granger's brow furrowed deeply as she thought it over. "The blood that the police have collected would have lost any residual traces of Dark Magic by now, having been separated from Moriarty's body for so long. Dark magic like this, Old Dark magic, it's not typically static when released from its host," she explained, thinking aloud. "It likes to roam free where it can. Which means that unless our Moriarty slips up and leaves another sample, the only way I'll be able to tell if this is Necromancy is if I'm able to come within close proximity of him. I'll be able to sense it, having worked where I have for so long."

Mycroft sat back in his armchair, his mind racing.

"I have an idea," he began slowly, "but you may not like it. It would be disruptive, time-consuming, dangerous, and potentially exhausting for you, Ms. Granger, and although I have no doubt in your ability, I feel I should be forthright in what this plan would entail for you."

The Minister looked to be concerned, but Ms. Granger didn't even bat an eye. "I appreciate that, Mr. Holmes," she replied sincerely.

"But all the same - try me."


	4. 221B

A sleek black sedan wove idly through traffic, turning onto a side road about a half hour away from Baker Street. The odd passerby gave the vehicle and its tinted windows a curious glance, but otherwise, people ignored it and went about their daily lives, unaware that two of the most influential individuals in Britain had just passed within tens of metres of them.

"I don't see any other feasible option," Mycroft Holmes was saying, gauging the expression of the woman sat beside him in the backseat of that same sedan, where typically a different brunette would be typing away on her Blackberry.

"And I agree with you, Mr. Holmes," replied one Ms. Hermione Granger, "which is why I'm on board with this plan. But you realize, if we do this, he has know what I am, and so do Dr. Watson and his wife; perhaps even Mrs. Hudson. No, definitely Mrs. Hudson," she amended. "I want all of them to be aware of what they're getting into, statute be damned. Kingsley - the Minister," she corrected herself with a slight note of chagrin that Mycroft observed with amusement, "can easily sanction this as an exception. And I won't have it any other way; it's my one condition."

"I understand," Mycroft assured her, "And in any case, it would be a ridiculous waste of time and energy to have to conceal your magic from them."

"Absolutely," agreed Ms. Granger. "Not to mention that this way, I won't be as limited in terms of the protection I can afford them. There are a few measures I'd like to take that require their awareness. I promise you, Mr. Holmes: I intend to keep them as safe as I can," she told him solemnly. "Despite what you've said about him being ... difficult ..." she grimaced, "I can tell that you care for your younger brother. I'm sorry that he has to be put in danger again, and I'll do my best to mitigate it and to take care of him and his friends."

Mycroft, completely unused to having his concerns so perceptively read and laid out in front of him, could only manage to stare straight ahead and give a stoic nod. In his peripheral vision, he glimpsed a small, sympathetic, and knowing smile flicker over the woman's face.

There was a pause before Mycroft found his tongue, which he then employed only with hesitancy. "Can I ask something of you, Ms. Granger?"

Her mouth twitched. "Of course, Mr. Holmes, but first - why don't I call you Mycroft and you call me Hermione? I have a feeling that we're going to become fast friends over the course of the next few days."

Mycroft nodded. "Hermione, then," he allowed, and if he seemed slightly taken aback or awkward, the woman in question made no remark to that effect. "Could you perhaps be especially ... gentle ... with the way that you tell Sherlock about the existence of magic and your community? I don't know exactly how he'll react, but there is a significant possibility that this will disturb him. Sherlock is highly logically and scientifically minded, so to hear that magic is real after so many years of refuting the supernatural ..."

"... will be both difficult for him to accept and potentially overwhelming," finished Hermione solemnly, nodding. "I can absolutely do that; to be honest, I'd intended to anyways before you asked, Mycroft," she confessed. "I'm Muggle-born, you see, so I know what it's like to have rejected the existence of magic only to be proven wrong. I found out only a few weeks before attending Hogwarts - and I was twelve at that point. Talk about baptism by fire," she laughed. "No, no, it was wonderful to find out why I was different, but the revelation did throw me for a bit of a loop. I was a narrow-minded child with a very rigid worldview," she admitted ruefully. "Everything was structured and almost all things could be explained. Magic threw a monkey wrench into all of that, obviously, so I tried to control what I could the only way I knew how: through my academics. I studied anything and everything I could get my hands on about magic and the magical world."

"Well, I am sure that once the initial shock wears off, you will be subject to all kinds of questions from Sherlock," said Mycroft, "He will want to know everything as well. I warn you: it will most likely be infuriating."

Hermione laughed. "Oh, I'm used to being pestered for answers," she told Mycroft. "It was always that way in school, and it does rather come with my job description."

"You may find you've met your match in my brother, Ms. Granger," he cautioned her, the formal address telling of his seriousness. Hermione didn't correct him; instead she simply tilted her head and considered Mycroft carefully.

Eventually, she murmured, "We'll see," her voice soft and temperate, neither warm nor cold. Withholding judgment, thought Mycroft. Acknowledging his warning, but nonetheless waiting to develop her own opinion of Sherlock. He felt his respect for the witch rise beyond its already abnormally high measure.

The pair quietly reviewed the specifics of Mycroft's plan and even had time to make a few pertinent phone calls before, finally, the sedan rolled to a stop. The elder Holmes brother slid out first and held the door open for his magical counterpart, who smiled in appreciation. As they approached the black door of the flat ahead, its knocker moved on its own, rapping sharply twice on the surface beneath it. Mycroft glanced at Hermione from the corner of his eye as the two came to a halt, but the woman in question had her arms down at her side, no wand in sight as her gaze lingered on the golden "221B".

The door swung open, revealing a frazzled looking older woman wearing a purple dress, a navy-blue apron, dark tights, and worn, black penny loafers. As soon as she laid eyes on the man in front of her, her expression became cross and she set her arms akimbo.

"Well, it's about time, Mycroft Holmes," scolded Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock's been making a horrible racket since he got back yesterday morning!" Her point was emphasized by the muffled sound of a man shouting and the tinkling crash of china shattering against a wall. Mrs. Hudson huffed out a heavy breath and put a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes briefly. "Whatever happened at the museum has got him in a right fit, and he's refusing to talk to anyone about it; he won't even speak to John! I'm worried that he's going to relapse." Taking a pause for breath in the midst of her lecture, the woman finally noticed Hermione standing beside the man she'd been berating. "Oh!" she exclaimed, dropping her hands to her side. "Sorry dear, I didn't see you there - I'm just so terribly worried about Sherlock. I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady."

Hermione smiled and shook the woman's hand politely. "Not to worry. It's a pleasure, Mrs. Hudson. My name is Hermione Granger; I'm a colleague of Mycroft's."

"That's lovely, dear," replied Mrs. Watson, and while her tone was sincere, it was no less impatient for that. "Shall I show you upstairs? You are here to see Sherlock, aren't you, Mycroft?" she asked the man reproachfully.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," sighed an already exasperated Mycroft. As the landlady led the way up the stairs, Mycroft continued, "Incidentally, if you have the time, Ms. Granger and I would like you to stay and be a part of the discussion that's about to occur."

"Oh," said Mrs. Hudson, stopping mid-step to look back at the visitors in surprise. "Me?"

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," said Hermione. "What happens to Sherlock affects you too, from what I hear, so you deserve to be in the know. Although I'm afraid you may not enjoy it," she added sadly. The trio continued their way up the stairs, and once they'd reached the second landing and Mycroft had moved slightly ahead of the two women to knock on the door, Mrs. Hudson took one of Hermione's hands in both of hers, patting it lightly once.

"Thank you, Ms. Granger," she told the younger woman quietly. "I think the boys forget me sometimes."

She received a sad, little smile and a soft squeeze of one hand in return. "It's Hermione to you, Mrs. Hudson. And believe me - I understand."

If Hermione had intended to say anything more, she never got the chance; the noise coming from the flat grew suddenly even louder, a second male voice adding to the ruckus. Mycroft sighed and proceeded to bang on the door three times, calling out, "John, it's Mycroft. Open the door."

A few seconds later, the white, paneled door of flat 221B opened about halfway to reveal a short, gray-haired man whose face, despite seeming the kind that would normally look good-natured, was contorted by stress and barely restrained anger.

"Mycroft," he said shortly. "It's about bloody time." Just like Mrs. Hudson before him, John did a double take as he registered the brunette woman standing next to the elder Holmes brother. He ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat, visibly embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said, extending a hand in greeting, "we haven't met."

The woman in question smiled understandingly. "That's perfectly alright. Dr. John Watson, I presume?" They exchanged a firm handshake as the man confirmed her assumption. "My name is Hermione Granger," she introduced herself. "I'm here at Mycroft's request to explain what's going on and how we can deal with it going forward."

"Then you are more than welcome," said Dr. Watson, exhaling heavily. Fatigue seemed to exude from him in tangible waves. "Please, come in."

The doctor ushered Hermione, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson into the sitting room. Snuggled into a worn and comfy-looking red armchair was a noticeably exhausted, pregnant blonde. "Mary Watson," she said, reaching out an arm, and she and Hermione shook hands, the latter introducing herself again briefly as everyone arranged themselves around the room.

"Am I correct in assuming that Sherlock is in his bedroom, having a tantrum?" asked Mycroft wearily, as the odd bang and clatter reached the assembled party from down the hall.

"I'll go fetch him," answered John Watson, his face grim.

As her husband thudded reluctantly out of eyesight, Mary Watson spoke up, in a kind voice that was equally calm and tired. "I'm sorry that this will be your first impression of Sherlock, Ms. Granger - may I call you Hermione?" She carried on after said woman had nodded, "He doesn't react well when he can't figure something out. The uncertainty eats at him, makes him lash out."

Hermione grimaced. "Given what he's seen and what I've heard about him, I can't say I blame Mr. Holmes for having such a strong reaction to this case. Don't worry, Mrs. Watson; I'll do my best to be patient with him."

Mary smiled gratefully and looked as though she was about to speak again when the conversation was forcibly cut short by two sets of footfalls coming down the hallway. Dr. Watson came in first, looking freshly frustrated, and immediately perched himself on the armrest of his wife's seat, taking the hand she offered in sympathy.

Shortly behind him followed the man whom Hermione knew was undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes, stalking into the room with pent-up aggression. He was tall and had a head of dark, messy curls, a porcelain complexion, impossibly sharp cheekbones, and eyes the colour of a frozen lake; he was also wearing a navy blue bathrobe, a gray t-shirt, plaid pyjama bottoms, and a pair of fuzzy house slippers.

One look at his expression was enough to tell anyone that this man was in a very bad place at the present moment.

Hermione took in his appearance with a combination of bemusement, concern, and a very different feeling that was entirely unexpected and slightly intriguing - which, of course, she promptly suppressed beneath her Occlumency shields. No distractions, she thought to herself. They all need you to be focused.

As she watched, it took him less than a split second to zero in on the presence of a stranger in the room.

Brown eyes met blue-green.


	5. The Explanation, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who have reviewed. Here's the next chapter; this one was a tad more difficult because of Sherlock's deductions. I hope I did him justice, and I hope that you enjoy the story.

The smile that Hermione had given Mary instantly faded from her face; she seemed to close off, eyes going eerily blank. Sherlock's gaze lingered on her, his own eyes flicking from one aspect of her person to another until at last, after far too much time had gone by, Mycroft snapped, "Enough, Sherlock! Sit down!"

Sherlock turned his stare from Hermione to his older brother but did not do as instructed. His expression was hard and cold as he regarded his sibling. Finally - and in a dangerously icy tone - he asked, "Who is she, Mycroft?"

"Ms. Granger is a colleague of mine," replied said brother just as coldly, every word enunciated with the utmost precision, "and she is here to explain how the footage is possible, Sherlock, so for God's sake, sit down."

Still, the younger Holmes refused; he took a step closer to Hermione, who held her ground despite his intimidating stance and his increasingly frustrated scrutiny, her face unreadable.

"You don't have 'colleagues'," retorted Sherlock. "At least, not ones you view as equals. Who is she really, Mycroft, and why doesn't she make sense?"

"Make sense?" asked Dr. Watson, who instantly looked sorry for having spoken.

"Nothing about her adds up," Sherlock answered. "There are too many missing pieces." He paused and took another step forward. Hermione's eyes glistened as Sherlock looked her over intensely, and her chin tilted upwards almost unconsciously. "Like you, John, she's a soldier, but it's even more ingrained in her than it is in you, given the way she stands and where she's positioned herself in the room - with a clear line to every possible exit. I'd say she was a child soldier, and by necessity, not by choice; she's too used to having to run. But the question remains, which war was she involved in? Nothing lines up properly, given that she's clearly English and that she's in her early to mid-thirties now. Then, there's the weapon she's carrying up her right sleeve - you can see its outline there," he pointed, "but it's not the right shape for a gun and it doesn't have a hilt, so it's not any kind of knife or dagger.

"Furthermore, she flexes the fist of her left arm subconsciously about every thirty seconds, which means that she has an old injury on her forearm - a painful one, possibly inflicted as a means of torture since it's such a strong impulse. So she was important enough to her own side to have valuable information, but not untouchable in the eyes of the other. What child or teenager would ever be in such a position?

"Not to mention that her appearance is full of contradictions. She personally doesn't give a damn about the way she looks, but she knows that it'll affect how she's perceived, so she cleans herself up well regardless." Dr. Watson looked as if he was going to protest, but Sherlock cut him off impatiently. "Lipstick, but no eye makeup, almost no powder, etc., John," he said, "the bare minimum. A crisp trouser suit, but with a few stray cat hairs at the hems that she either doesn't think to look for, or thinks aren't noticeable enough to be worth getting rid of. Heels whose colour is enough to distract from their relative lack of height and more comfortable make. So, she doesn't value physical appearances, but knows that others do - and she's intent upon being taken seriously. Undoubtedly a pressure point - a constant need to prove herself. Which is surprising, because since she has your esteem, Mycroft, she must be incredibly intelligent," snarked Sherlock bitterly.

"And those rings," he pointed again, "They're the only jewelry she has on, but they are ornate and undoubtedly expensive, which makes no sense, because she is clearly not materialistic - unless they have some kind of sentimental value or practical use. She's obviously single - no engagement or wedding ring, a workaholic, and a woman in a position of considerable power - so unless they're a family heirloom, I would say practical. And seeing as her parents are dentists by the state of her teeth, which makes her background middle-to-upper middle class, heirlooms of that value are unlikely. But how could rings like that be practical? They aren't seals, they aren't structured in a way that might suggest the concealment of some kind of substance ... Completely absurd!

"So. Are you trying to ridicule me, brother," Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, "by offering me the guise of a solution for one unsolvable mystery through a messenger who just so happens to be another?" The two brothers glared at one another, and tensions mounted in the room to the point of suffocation.

Abruptly, the silence was broken.

"Have you finished, Mr. Holmes, or shall I continue to stand here and wait?"

The words were spoken softly and without the slightest hint of resentment. Everyone in the room started in surprise, the Holmes brothers included.

All eyes snapped to the source of the question and watched in shock as Hermione Granger contemplated the younger Holmes brother with a sudden, staggering sadness.

"You poor man," Hermione murmured. She closed the space between the two of them, moving as though in a trance, and stopped right in front of him, gazing into his eyes intently. Slowly, as if not to scare him off, she raised a hand to the side of his face and stroked a thumb over one of his exquisite cheekbones. Sherlock stared at her, completely entranced. "It torments you, doesn't it?" she asked knowingly, "Not understanding." She seemed to come back to herself after that and stepped back slightly, her cheeks colouring for a brief moment as she lowered her outstretched arm to her side. Despite her chagrin, she did not break eye contact with the man in front of her.

"Mr. Holmes," she said gently, "I promise you that I am not here to offer any kind of false consolation. Rather the opposite; I'm here to discuss a horrible problem with you and to ask for your help. Think of me as a client. I will present my case to you, and you can decide whether or not to take it." She gestured to Sherlock's empty, black armchair. "Now, please; take a seat and let me explain."

Sherlock measured Hermione for an indefinite moment, and this in spite of the fact that instinctively, he knew she was being honest. Finally, however, he acquiesced, lowering himself slowly into the armchair without taking his eyes off of her. Hermione smiled.

She went to grab two chairs, one wooden and straight-backed and the other cushioned, and pulled them up beside the two occupied armchairs so that they were facing the fireplace. She then took a seat on the less comfortable of the two and turned to Mrs. Hudson, patting the padded surface next to her. "Do sit down, Mrs. Hudson," she beseeched the older woman, "I'd hate for you to put any unnecessary strain on your hip."

Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth as if to ask how Hermione had known, but stopped as said woman's smile softened and eyes sparkled. The elder lady huffed and gave the younger a good-natured tap on the shoulder, but nevertheless took a seat beside her. Mary chuckled slightly and smiled fondly at Mrs. Hudson, and John, still perched on the armrest of what was usually his seat, was looking at Hermione with a mixture of awe and curiosity. Mycroft, assured that Hermione was not going anywhere despite the rocky start with Sherlock, moved to stand by the window, looking down into the street as Hermione delved into her explanation.

"I'm going to begin with something of a digression; but it is necessary, so please indulge me," she began. Seeing no protestations other than a little, impatient sigh from Sherlock, Hermione nodded in thanks and continued.

"Despite what Mr. Holmes has revealed, the first eleven years of my life were actually fairly ordinary. My parents were, as said, dentists," she smiled indulgently, "and I grew up quite normally in an upper-middle-class suburb of London. I adored school and learning to the point of becoming a bit of a know-it-all and was bullied horrendously as a result, which, unfortunately, isn't all that abnormal. However, what was abnormal was what would occasionally happen when someone hurt or embarrassed me particularly badly." Hermione paused, pursing her lips. "Melinda Hopper, for example, took a harsh tumble down the hill of the schoolyard after getting three of her little posse to gang up on me and give me swirlies over the course of a 50 minute lunch period." Hermione grimaced. "Anyway, it seemed especially unusual that she'd fallen because the top of that hill was flat and had nothing on it to trip over, but everyone put it down to clumsiness. Melinda suffered a sprained ankle and a broken wrist.

"Then, there was Mitchell Davis, a stupid thug who positively hated my guts. He got two of his friends to hold me down and used safety scissors to cut off almost all of my hair." Hermione touched her impeccably arranged locks reflexively, as if assuring herself that they were still there. "I looked like a boy for weeks. But the day after it happened, the lot of them came into class wearing hats, shuffling about and trying not to be noticed. The teacher saw regardless, of course, and ordered the boys to remove them. It turned out that all three had the most shockingly fluorescent pink hair you've ever seen in your life. And from what I heard from the other students, it never went away. They couldn't even dye their hair to cover it; when they tried, they would wake up the next day to find it had gone back to the same, ghastly pink.

Hermione looked around at her bemused audience. "I felt, a bit guiltily, that they'd gotten what they'd deserved." She gave a little, wry smile. "What I never imagined, though, was that I was the one who was actually responsible for both incidents."

A flabbergasted silence filled the room for a moment. Sherlock unceremoniously shattered it.

"What on earth do you mean, 'you were responsible without knowing what you'd done'?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous, Mr. Holmes, but please, hear me out," Hermione told him.

Mycroft cut in from his place by the curtains. "Do as she says, Sherlock," he ordered.

Sherlock shot his brother a sullen look. He then laced his fingers together on his lap and gave a heavy, petulant sigh. "Continue, Ms. Granger."

"Thank you," said Hermione primly. "Shortly before my 12th birthday, a woman named Professor Minerva McGonagall came for a visit at my house under the pretense of being a university scout on the lookout for young talent. It wasn't a far stretch at all that such a thing could occur, given my grades, so my parents and I were very excited to meet her. I was hoping that I might be able to do some kind of internship at one of the university laboratories or something of the sort. I absolutely adored science," she said, glancing at Sherlock. "I must have been one of the most logically minded children to ever exist, apart from perhaps our dear Holmes men, here," Hermione noted with a smile, "which made what happened next quite a shock."

"You see, instead of talking about the university she was supposedly from, Professor McGonagall began to ask us a series of rather strange questions. She wanted to know whether my parents had ever noticed strange activity around me or unusual precociousness on my part; whether seemingly inexplicable things seemed to happen when I was feeling strong emotions.

"She unnerved us just as I feared I've unnerved you," said Hermione apologetically, "but with us, it was because she'd touched on something that we'd all noticed but never spoken about. Because it was true. I was as straight-laced a child as they come, but odd things, things that were incredibly hard to explain away - they seemed to happen around me far too often for it to be a coincidence. We wanted to understand what was going on with me, so we kept listening to her, despite our initial distrust.

"As it happened, Professor McGonagall was actually there, among other things, to invite me to attend a private boarding school in Scotland. An establishment," and here she paused again, giving those listening a quelling look, "called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Hermione straightened her right arm and snapped her fingers sharply. A finely carved and expertly polished wooden stick flew out from under her sleeve to sit in the palm of her open hand. Everyone except Mycroft stared.

"Professor McGonagall explained to me and my parents that all over the world, living in secret societies tucked away from those who don't know what to look for, are people who can use magic, called witches and wizards. They - we," Hermione corrected herself, "are born with the ability, but our talents remain for the most part untapped and unrefined until we obtain the use of a wand." She flourished the stick elegantly, and, to the disbelief of those watching, it produced a series of scarlet and bronze sparks, which dissipated quickly into the air. "Incidents like the ones I caused are referred to as outbursts of accidental magic, prompted by strong waves of emotion, whether positive or negative. And in the magical world, they are quite common."

Hermione stopped and let that sink in. Sherlock, John, and Mary were all staring at Hermione as though she'd grown a second head. Mrs. Hudson, however, was looking at her with pleasantly surprised recognition.

"Oh, you're just like Eustace!" exclaimed the landlady excitedly. Hermione quirked an eyebrow at her and everyone else turned to look in consternation at Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft included. She blushed.

"You know a wizard?" Sherlock managed to get out, his voice sounding almost hysterical in its skepticism.

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Hudson. "He told me not to talk about it, you know, made me promise." She nodded knowledgeably. "He said bad things would happen if it got out, that he'd be breaking the law if someone found out he'd told a - what was the word he used? It started with an 'm' -"

"Muggle? It means non-magical," offered Hermione.

"Yes! That's it; thank you, love," Mrs. Hudson replied gratefully. "Yes, he said he'd be breaking the law if someone found out he'd told a Muggle girl that he was magical. So I did as he asked. We were childhood friends, he and I. He said his mother was like him, but his father wasn't, and that they argued about it sometimes but still loved each other in the end. But Eustace showed me some absolutely wonderful things," she continued, letting out a sigh heavy with nostalgia. "He had this habit of making flowers open and close their blooms when he was happy."

Mrs. Hudson turned to Hermione, her eyes shining with an almost childlike excitement. "Could you show us something like that, Ms - Hermione?" the landlady implored her quietly. "I would so love to see magic again."

Hermione squeezed the woman's hand briefly and smiled, a thoughtful expression spreading over her features. Then, with a graceful wave of her wand, Hermione murmured, "Avis."

A flock of startlingly yellow canaries soared from the tip of her wand, chirping away as they fluttered idly around Hermione's head in a circle, rather like a sentient halo adorning her coiffed hair. She gave her wand a slight flick and the birds flew outwards to the members of her (utterly transfixed) audience.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were welling with happy tears as one of the daintier canaries landed gently on her shoulder and tweeted softly at her. On Hermione's left, Mary and John were watching in amazement as a handful of the gorgeous creatures floated around the two of them, occasionally nudging one of the couple playfully with their beaks. One particularly daring bird came to rest on Mary's rounded stomach, singing a sweet melody to her disbelieving, ecstatic face and looking straight at her with a pair of jolly, sparkling eyes.

Hermione took in the scene with a tiny, serene smile and then turned her attention to Sherlock. He was looking at Mary and John with a curious expression in his eyes when abruptly, they flashed over to meet Hermione's. He was distracted for a moment as a single canary approached him, chirping almost scoldingly. Instinctively, he raised a loose fist, and the bird settled on his index finger, returning to its previous, merry song. Sherlock watched it impassively for a moment before looking back up at Hermione. Tentatively, her smile widened, and she glanced down at her hands for a moment, suddenly overwhelmed by his intensity. When she was finally able to return her gaze to his face, she found that his lips had turned ever so fractionally upwards.

From his place by the window - and thus entirely unnoticed - Mycroft surveyed them all, a genuine smile warming his normally cool expression.


	6. The Explanation, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Here's the next chapter. This one fought me, as exposition-heavy chapters typically do, but hopefully it will be worth the struggle. Oh - and I'd like to give a shout-out to saraste for the wonderfully encouraging reviews. They are my fuel, so thank you so much.
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Hermione broke away from Sherlock's gaze and took a moment to commit the scene in front of her to memory. Eventually - and with a certain wistfulness - she intoned, "Finite incantatem," and the canaries took flight once more before disappearing in vibrant bursts of yellow light. The room seemed to grow dim in their absence.

Mrs. Hudson spoke up in an urgent tone, sensing that that particular instance was her only chance to speak before the conversation turned to more serious matters. "Thank you, dear," she said, admiration shining in her eyes as she looked up at the woman seated beside her. "That was exactly the kind of thing I was hoping for."

"Don't mention it, Mrs. Hudson," Hermione replied, smiling warmly at the landlady, "It's my pleasure." She turned to face the room at large, tucking her wand away safely in its holster up her sleeve. "I hope that assuages any doubts about the truth of my story?"

Everyone's eyes turned conspicuously to Sherlock. He considered Hermione for a brief moment and then gave a sharp nod. "It does," he said, speaking for all those present.

"Excellent," responded Hermione, the slightest touch of relief in her voice. "Right then," she sighed, sitting back in her chair with noticeable fatigue. "Now to the more unpleasant part of why I'm here. I suppose I should give you a choice." Hermione addressed that last statement to Sherlock, her lips twitching into something of a tired grimace. As she continued, Mycroft closed the curtains and walked over to pull up a chair in front of the fireplace, tired of standing by the window, and also - knowing what was coming next - wanting to have a prime seat to listen to Hermione's tale.

"I can tell you the relevant details of my past, and then explain my best theory as to the cause of the event that has you so distressed, Mr. Holmes, and me and your brother so concerned," offered Hermione, "or, I could do the reverse. It's up to you."

"I assume that your backstory is relevant to the explanation, Ms. Granger?" demanded Sherlock.

"Yes; in a few ways, I suspect," replied Hermione.

"Then I'd prefer to have everything told in order. Start at the beginning, if you will."

"Of course." Hermione tried to settle back even further into her seat, and then gave up, its form and material too rigid for her liking. "Would you mind terribly if I turned this into something more comfortable?" she asked, gesturing haphazardly at the chair. "It's been a very stressful day and this is going to take a while, not to mention that what I'm about to tell you is a rather difficult story for me to get out, if experience is any indicator."

"By all means," allowed Sherlock, an anticipatory gleam in his eyes as he watched her.

Without withdrawing her wand or speaking a word, Hermione waved her hand in a complicated motion and the wooden contraption she was sitting on morphed into a small but cozy leather armchair, the colour of cobalt. She groaned decadently, letting her head fall back onto the supple material as she shut her eyes. "Apologies," she said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "Stress does tend to manifest itself physically. Now; the beginning. Hm... Alright." Hermione's voice took on a business-like quality, and when her eyes opened, they revealed an unusual contrast between uncanny focus and utter exhaustion.

"In the magical community, especially in European countries, there are different, shall we say ... classes? ..." she posed thoughtfully, and then nodded, continuing, "of witches and wizards. There are those families who consist entirely of witches and wizards, whose members have never married into non-magical families. Those people are referred to, at least by my generation, as 'Pure-bloods', and up until recent years, they made up the majority of the aristocracy of Magical Britain. Then, there are those who have a mixture of magical and non-magical heritage. Those people are called 'Half-bloods', and while some of those individuals who are members of older, established families were also part of the aristocracy, most were firmly middle class.

"And then, finally, there are people like me," a bitter smile soured Hermione's previously lax features, "who have no known magical ancestors. In polite and decent circles, we are referred to as Muggle-borns, 'Muggle', as I've mentioned, being the colloquial term for non-magical people. In certain more illicit groups, however," she sat up reluctantly, shucking off her suit jacket, "we have a more degrading moniker."

Hermione unbuttoned the cuff of her left sleeve and neatly rolled the fabric up to her elbow. She turned the inside of her forearm out to those watching, and the reactions varied. Mrs. Hudson gasped; Mary murmured, "Oh, Hermione"; Mycroft's eyes bugged slightly; Sherlock leaned forward, staring at Hermione's arm with a combination of alarm and morbid curiosity; and John - or perhaps in this case, Dr. Watson - instinctively jumped up off of his perch on the arm of his wife's chair and began to approach Hermione before he seemed to realize what he was doing.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Granger," the doctor apologized, reddening and fidgeting in embarrassment. "It's just - well," he began bashfully before Hermione cut him off.

"No, by all means, Dr. Watson," Hermione assured him, beckoning him towards her.

John hesitated, but after seeing the calmness of her expression, he took the final few steps forward and knelt down at her side, taking her arm gently in his hands. Meeting her eyes again and receiving a nod in return, he ran his fingers over the ghastly, blackened scar on her arm which read "Mudblood" in crude, almost child-like script. The surrounding area was lightly inflamed, and her arm flexed involuntarily at his touch.

"I don't understand," John muttered. "Sherlock said this happened when you were a teenager, but to my knowledge, this can't be over a couple months old, and that's pushing it, even counting for infection." He looked up at Hermione. "What the blazing hell did this to you?" he asked, grimness and sympathetic anger in his inflexion.

Hermione smiled at him sadly. "A cursed knife, owned by a sadist named Bellatrix Lestrange. She reveled in torture, and was particularly fond of the Cruciatus Curse, a spell that specifically targets nerve endings to send signals of excruciating pain to the brain - hence the name 'Cruciatus'.

"She felt that I deserved something special, though," Hermione told those listening, her tone oozing black humour, "so she decided to carve this slur into my arm in between bouts of magical torture. The blade she used was enchanted with Dark magic, which is why the scar hasn't faded." Hermione's eyes deadened as she continued to speak, her skin stretching tighter over her cheekbones as her jaw locked against the memories she was undoubtedly reliving. Mary watched the darkness come over the younger woman with concern, the worry lines on her forehead growing pronounced as she empathized with Hermione's experience.

"Bellatrix wanted to mark me as the filth she thought I was, wanted anyone who saw my body to know that I was vermin." She fingered the jagged letter "m" engraved in her arm as she spoke, her voice wavering oh-so-subtly on that final word. "The scar repels any kind of magical concealment, too, charmingly," she added with false cheer, "so I've had to either wear long sleeves or grin and bear it. Cosmetics just irritate it, so they aren't worth the effort, either."

No one knew exactly what to say. Somehow "I'm so sorry," seemed an inadequate response, as did "that's terrible," or "that bitch".

Out of the blue, voice low, Sherlock asked, "Is she dead?"

A kind of vicious pleasure sparked in Hermione's eyes as they met his, and a slow, tiny smirk livened her face. "Yes," she murmured. "She made the mistake of crossing a very protective mother and paid for it with her life, I'm quite happy to say. That rabid woman deserved nothing less." Sherlock reciprocated her smirk, seeming to gain vicarious satisfaction from her expression.

Mycroft cleared his throat. Hermione's gaze turned to his and she shot the older Holmes an amused look, but admitted nonetheless,"But we've digressed." As John got up and returned to his seat, Hermione's facial features again smoothed into those of the impartial lecturer.

"Bellatrix was a blood purist - someone who believed in the innate superiority of Pure-blood witches and wizards. She chose me to torture first out of those present because she considered me the most expendable of our lot. But we'll get to that later. Bellatrix and a number of other blood purists like her followed a Dark wizard named Tom Riddle, who became known as Lord Voldemort." She paused to conjure herself a glass and with a quiet "Aguamenti" and a point of her finger, she filled it with water. In the meantime, Sherlock perked up.

"Vol-de-mort, as in "flight from death", or "theft from death"?" he queried.

"Both, I suppose," answered Hermione with a single, strangled chuckle. She took a much-needed drink from her glass, peering at its contents as though wishing for something stronger. Nevertheless, she persevered, adding, "Again, we'll get to that.

"Now. Voldemort was, ironically, a Half-blood, but he was a descendant of one of the earliest and most notable proponents of the concept of blood purity, Salazar Slytherin, and Voldemort kept his Muggle heritage quiet, so his blood status was conveniently ignored by his followers. While he attended Hogwarts, he amassed a following, predominantly made of students in his school House, Slytherin - which, yes, was named after the same Salazar Slytherin I mentioned. He was one of the four Founders of the school," explained Hermione. "The others were Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw."

"How absurdly alliterative," commented Mycroft. Hermione, startled by his interruption, broke into delighted laughter, made all the more genuine by her surprise.

"I couldn't agree more," she affirmed. "I've often wondered if they changed their names for the sake of theatre, but even if they did, none of the history books I've read make reference to it. Anyways; each House values different qualities based on the traits that their Founders considered most admirable, and Hogwarts students are Sorted into Houses based on their natural character traits, aptitudes, and occasionally, their sense of belonging or personal preference. Traditionally, Gryffindor is for the bold and brave, Hufflepuff for the kind and hard-working, Ravenclaw for the intelligent and inquisitive, and Slytherin for the cunning and ambitious." Her expression grew rueful. "I suppose it makes sense that children of the aristocracy were so often sorted into Slytherin given all the factors in play. Oh, and Muggle-borns were never sorted into Slytherin. If they had been, they would likely have been bullied to the point of having to leave the school; that's how deep the prejudice ran, even in the children.

"Voldemort exploited that prejudice, using the banner of blood purity to gain the support of members of the more influential Dark families. They called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis at first, trying to appeal to the feudal nature of Wizarding society, but as they grew more and more extreme in their measures, they eventually became known as the Death Eaters, courtesy of one of the more imaginative columnists of our main newspaper. And of course," Hermione grimaced bitterly, "they embraced the name and made it their own. They became full-blown terrorists, killing Muggle families left, right, and centre and targeting magical families who sympathized with Muggles and Muggle-borns, calling them blood traitors."

"My former Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, who was a genius and probably the most powerful Light wizard of the past couple of centuries, formed a resistance group to fight the Death Eaters. You see, although our government, the Ministry of Magic, was publicly against Voldemort, it'd been infiltrated by the time the group resorted to extremism. There were spies scattered throughout all of its major Departments, leaking information back to Voldemort, so a separate, non-governmental group was required." Hermione coughed lightly and excused herself, taking another sip of water before resuming her story.

"James and Lily Potter, the parents of my best friend, Harry, were part of that resistance group. They were one of the most talented and well-liked couples in the resistance community, which made them prime targets, especially given that Lily was Muggle-born. Despite that, they avoided three close calls with Voldemort and the Death Eaters during that first war. But then," Hermione sighed angrily, "a prophecy was made, and it changed everything.

"A somewhat unreliable Seer - a witch prone to fits of clairvoyance," she clarified, "by the name of Sybill Trelawney gave Dumbledore a prophecy about Voldemort's fate during a job interview for a teaching position at Hogwarts. Here," she said, "I'll play it for you. Just a warning - this is going to look strange."

Hermione wordlessly summoned her wand to her hand and then carefully placed its tip at her temple, closing her eyes and letting her face go slack. When she drew it away from her skin, a wispy strand of silver-blue light flowed from the site of her temple until she flicked her wand sharply and it disconnected from her head, floating freely in the air. Hermione slid her wand back up her sleeve and raised her hands, palms facing one another. She used her thumbs to twist the rings on her middle fingers so that their gems sat just above her palms, and proceeded to rub them both three times in a circular motion. As she finished the third circuit, the gems began to glow a vividly electric shade of blue, and Hermione moved her hands so that each gem caught one end of the mysterious, ethereal strand of light. It flickered idly from its place between the two stones until Hermione chanted, "Memoria memoras."

An eerie, rasping voice emanated from the strand, which began to pulsate along with the audible frequency of the sound it was emitting. The voice recited:

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

The bright, blue-tinted silver of the strand of light faded to a dull gray, and when Hermione murmured, "Finite incantatem,", it detached itself from her rings and dissolved into the air. In the ensuing quiet, there was a lot of blinking as everyone's eyes readjusted to the lighting of the room.

"Okay," blurted John, "I'm sorry; that was bloody cool."

Laughter reverberated off the sitting room walls.


	7. The Explanation, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here is the next installment. It's the last major exposition chapter, don't worry XD I tried to keep it interesting, regardless. Thank you for your ongoing support, my lovely readers. Please continue to share your thoughts with me. :) I hope you enjoy the story.

Once everyone had settled down, curiosity replaced mirth and the content of the prophecy was slowly mulled over.

"So, the Potters were the parents of the child in the prophecy? Your friend, Harry?" asked Mary.

Hermione nodded. "It ended up that way, yes. There was another family that it could have referred to, but Voldemort chose to go after the Potters instead." She tilted her to the side pensively and added, "Harry always thought that Voldemort picked him instead of the other boy, our friend Neville, because Harry is a Half-blood like Voldemort; and not only that - he's a Half-blood who, at the time, had everything that Voldemort was deprived of: two loving parents, a safe and welcoming home, wealth and social standing... In essence, he saw Harry as an equal in blood, but resented him for his good fortune.

"In any case," she sighed, "one of Voldemort's followers at the time overheard the prophecy while it was being delivered to Dumbledore, and he took what he knew straight to his master." Hermione's features suddenly took on a strange expression; anger, sadness, and reluctant understanding seemed to wage war in the crease between her eyebrows, in the coffee-and-ochre-and-cinnamon of her irises, in the rigid set of her mouth.

"When Voldemort decided to move against the Potters in order to eliminate Harry, the same man who told him of the prophecy turned to Albus Dumbledore to warn him of Voldemort's plans. That man's name was Severus Snape," Hermione said, undeniable heaviness in her tone, "and he was in love with Lily Potter, who had been a close friend of his during their childhood. As soon as it became apparent that Voldemort didn't care for Lily's survival - she was 'just a Mudblood' to him, after all," she spat, "Snape ran to Dumbledore, and made a bargain with him to protect Lily, and her family by extension, in exchange for his services as a spy. Dumbledore agreed, and set the Potters up in a cottage that was under a protection spell known as the Fidelius charm. The nature of the Fidelius is that it counts on the loyalty of a trusted friend or loved one of those in need of protection to keep the secret of their location safe. Once a Fidelius charm is in place, that person becomes the only individual beyond those protected who knows where they are and who can reveal their location to other people. For that reason, they're called a Secret Keeper.

"Now, while James Potter was at school, he had a very close-knit group of friends. They called themselves the Marauders," Hermione noted with wistful smile, "and they were incredibly talented pranksters. There were four of them: James, of course; and then Sirius Black, who was for all intents and purposes his adopted brother; Remus Lupin, the most rational and humble of the four of them by a long stretch; and, finally, Peter Pettigrew." She uttered the last of the names with undiluted derision and had to take a harsh breath to calm herself.

Sherlock's gaze traced over the tensed plains of Hermione's face in the quiet before he spoke. "Pettigrew was chosen as Secret Keeper and betrayed the Potters." The words were a statement rather than a question.

Hermione nodded, and despite the fact that she'd regained control of most of her facial features and arranged them into a stoic mask, her eyes spoke clearly of the tumultuous emotions she was holding back from within.

"Yes," she confirmed. "The logic, so I've been told, was that Sirius was too obvious a choice and that Remus had too much contact with the werewolves aligned with Voldemort to be counted on to keep the Secret safe - Remus himself was a werewolf, incidentally," she clarified. "There was a likely possibility that he would be ambushed by the others, brought to Voldemort, and killed under interrogation. That left Pettigrew. He was a rat, and in more ways than one." She scowled viciously. "He turned out to be an undercover Death Eater, and the information that he provided Voldemort brought about the extinction of an entire family line, as well as the near-eradication of another, and that was even before the Potters.

"In the end, though, Pettigrew betrayed James and Lily like the coward he was, and so Voldemort set out for Potter Cottage in Godric's Hollow on the Halloween night of 1981. They'd thought they were safe," Hermione murmured sadly. She looked up, and seeing the concerned expressions of her audience members, she gave a shaky smile of reassurance. "I'm sorry. It's just that I've seen the memory of it, so speaking of what happened is rather difficult." At their obvious confusion, her smile grew slightly more genuine. "I'll explain that some other time. Just ... suffice it to say that Harry was forced at one point to relive his parents' murders from Voldemort's perspective, and that I have been privy to those memories thanks to my ministry position and the fact that Harry wouldn't trust anyone but me with his memories. I don't blame him at all, either. He's been through some horrendous experiences, things that I certainly wouldn't be willing to share with a stranger. His parents' murders..." She shuddered.

"They were in their sitting room playing with Harry when Voldemort came through the front gate and they realized that he had come for them. Because they'd thought they were safe, both Lily and James were unarmed. James yelled for Lily to take Harry and run." Hermione's voice had become monotone and her eyes, lifeless, as she detached herself from the memory. "She ran up the stairs to the nursery and James tried to head Voldemort off to buy her time. Voldemort laughed, struck him down with the Killing Curse, and stepped over his corpse to get up the stairs. Lily tried to physically barricade herself and Harry in the nursery, but it was no use. Voldemort broke into the room and ordered Lily to stand aside from Harry, but Lily refused. She kept begging," Hermione said, her voice breaking on the word, "begging him to kill her instead, to spare her son."

As Sherlock and Mycroft listened, they forcibly rendered their expressions impassive, but the way they sat in their chairs as stiff as a pair of painstakingly chiseled ice sculptures betrayed the degree of their disturbance. Mary's eyes were glistening in dismayed horror and she kept one arm curled around her stomach while her grip on John's hand turned vice-like. The doctor didn't seem to notice the loss of circulation in his increasingly pale fingers, fixed as he was on Hermione's pallor; his jaw was taut, his eyes grim and quietly enraged. Mrs. Hudson's cheeks were wet with tears and she had deliberately set one hand on Hermione's forearm in a gesture of comfort. The witch sucked in a ragged gasp of air and soldiered onward.

"He murdered her in cold blood, in front of her infant child. Dead with a bit of Aramaic and a flash of green light. Magic is so fickle," Hermione whispered. "It can do such wonderful things in one moment and such horrible things the next. It just depends who's using it. And that's where Lily Potter comes in, because she used her death to do the unthinkable. Instinctively, she invoked an ancient form of Blood magic that allows a person to sacrifice themselves in order to save a loved one from death at the hands of a sworn enemy. So, when Voldemort turned on Harry and tried to use the Killing Curse on him as well, because of Lily's sacrifice, the curse rebounded, and it forced Voldemort's soul from his body, weakening him immensely.

"It didn't kill him, though," Hermione continued, and her tone grew dark once more, "because Voldemort had rendered himself immortal in the most disgusting way possible. The magic he used," she shook her head vehemently, "is among the foulest branch of the Dark Arts.

"You see, the existence of the soul is contested in the Muggle world, but it's a fact in the magical world. Our magic even allows us to see souls in certain circumstances. They are magi-scientifically tangible, or in other words, they have been proven through the magical scientific process to exist and to have real substance, although the nature of that substance is extremely complex. In terms of purpose, though, they are what gives us our essence, our individuality, for lack of better terms. The Killing Curse - it literally rips the soul from the body. It's said to be painless, but nonetheless, it's a violation of natural law. Our souls are supposed to leave our bodies in their own time. To strip someone of their essence, of their soul, prematurely, in an act of cold-blooded, apathetic murder ... it taints your own essence and physically damages the soul.

"Intent matters, though," she added as an aside. "If a person kills in self-defense, for example, or if they perform euthanasia, the act does not have the same effect. But it's not as if Voldemort was performing mercy killings." Her lips arranged themselves into a crude mockery of a smile.

"No, he willingly mutilated his soul through murder. He wanted to damage it enough so that he could actually rip pieces of it away from the whole, to be stored in magical objects." Hermione paused to look the two Holmes men, first Mycroft, then Sherlock. The lines and the specks of her irises were moving, circling her pupil, and the brothers watched in silent astonishment as, for a brief moment, her eyes gave off the faintest amber glow. As she read their features, she seemed to realize what they were seeing, because in the next second she'd shut her eyes, and when she'd reopened them, they were back to normal.

"To do that," she resumed her explanation, "to damage yourself in such a perverse way especially at the cost of other lives and other souls is an abomination against nature and magic," she seethed. "It destroys any lingering remainder of sanity. But in tethering his soul to those objects, Voldemort made himself essentially immortal, because a person can't die unless their entire soul is available to pass through the Veil. The items containing the pieces of soul, called Horcruxes, have enchantments on them that keep the fragments from rejoining with the one inhabiting the body. So, when Voldemort was hit with the Killing Curse, although what was left of his soul was separated from his body, it did not pass on. He retained spirit form.

"He fled to hide in the woods of Albania, an old hideaway of his, for all of Harry's early childhood. Eventually, a precocious young man named Quirinus Quirrell came in search of him, and Voldemort convinced - or even more likely compelled - Quirrell to serve him. When he found out that Quirrell had a teaching position at Hogwarts, Voldemort followed him there and upon arriving performed a particularly disgusting ritual involving unicorn blood in order to manifest himself physically on the back of Quirrell's head. Quirrell wore a turban to conceal his master.

"That year was - not coincidentally - the first year of Harry's schooling at Hogwarts. He had been raised by his non-magical family, who were verbally abusive and who treated him like a servant. He'd been sent to them so that he would be out of the public eye in the magical world and, more importantly, because Dumbledore had enacted a blood protection spell tied to Harry's aunt, Lily's sister, Petunia, that would protect him from Voldemort should he have found out Harry's location and sought to harm him. Harry grew up knowing nothing of magic or what had really happened to his parents.

"His first altercation with Voldemort occurred at the end of that year, when he was eleven years old," she revealed. "There was an object hidden at Hogwarts called the Philosopher's Stone, an alchemical invention that produced the Elixir of Life, whose effects, I think, are self-evident." She received a series of nods and gave a slight smile. "Harry figured out that Voldemort was after it and our friend Ron and I insisted on coming with him when we discovered where it was being kept and thought that he was going after it. We'd found out that there was a series of obstacles in the way and we knew that he'd need help getting through. Funnily enough, we originally suspected Severus Snape of helping Voldemort; he seemed much more menacing than Quirrell ever did. Anyhow, Harry was the only one to reach the end of the course and he confronted Quirrell and Voldemort on his own. His mother's protection saved him again; Quirrell tried to strangle him but ended up turning to stone and crumbling into dust because of it. Voldemort's spirit was forced to leave Quirrell's body and again, it fled.

"And that was just the start," mused Hermione. "Every following year, something related to Voldemort would happen, usually culminating in some kind of horrific event at the end of the final term." Then, as succinctly as she could, Hermione detailed the events of each year at Hogwarts: second year, with the Chamber of Secrets, her petrification, and unbeknownst to them at the time, the destruction of the first Horcrux; third year, with the escape of Sirius Black from Azkaban, the discovery of the Marauders, the truth about the Secret Keeper, and the escape of Pettigrew; fourth year, with the Quidditch World Cup, the Triwizard Tournament that ended up having four participants, the impersonation of Mad-Eye Moody by Barty Crouch Jr., the death of Cedric Diggory, and the resurrection of Lord Voldemort; fifth year, with the Ministry's propaganda, Dolores Umbridge, the prophecy, the battle at the Ministry between the Death Eaters, a bunch of schoolchildren, and the Order of the Phoenix, Sirius's death at the hands of Bellatrix, and the possession of Harry by Voldemort; and finally, sixth year, with the branding of Draco Malfoy, the looming war, Harry's Horcrux lessons, Horace Slughorn, Dumbledore's death, and the revelation of Half-blood Prince.

By the time Hermione reached that point, not only were the Holmes brothers, the Watsons, and Mrs. Hudson completely transfixed by her story, but they were stunned and horrified by the fact that Hermione and her ilk had gone through the entire ordeal as teenagers.

At one point in her long tale, the witch took a moment to enumerate some of the better known Death Eaters and list their particular talents. Lucius Malfoy, she told them, was an abusive master and a man wretched enough to sneak an innocent girl a Horcrux because of his rivalry with her father. Walden Macnair, she said, had a fetish for slaughtering magical creatures. Antonin Dolohov was a rapist. Fenrir Greyback was werewolf so feral that he purposefully turned children such as the young Remus Lupin into werewolves and eventually resorted to cannibalism because of his addiction to the taste of human flesh. The incestuous Carrow twins, Alecto and Amycus, tortured schoolchildren and forced those same children to torture their classmates with the Cruciatus curse. The Lestrange brothers were torture enthusiasts, and Bellatrix Lestrange ... well, Bellatrix didn't need to be further discussed.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said for the second time, surveying the pale faces staring back at her after she ended her diatribe. "I know that this is horrible to hear. But if I'm right about what's going on, then you do need to hear all of it because you need to understand what Voldemort and his followers were capable of. Many of the Death Eaters were just as twisted as he was and incredibly eager to learn from him. If he taught them anything in the same realm of magic as the Horcruxes..." Hermione sighed, rubbing her forehead tiredly, dread entrenched in every line of her face. "But we'll get back to that," she promised.

Then, in more thorough detail, she spoke of the year that she, Harry, and Ron had spent on the run. She expounded upon all of the important elements, related the level of fear and despair and paranoia that the trio had experienced, spoke of the hunt for the Horcruxes and all of its complications, the Battle of Hogwarts, and the final, great secret: that Harry himself was a Horcrux. She told them of Harry's alleged death, the final exchange between him and Voldemort, and the duel in the courtyard. She told them of the aftermath of the battle: the ridiculously high body count, the cleanup, and how after finishing her schooling at Hogwarts and abroad, she had returned to Britain to work at the Ministry. And then, finally, she told them of her status as an Unspeakable and her connection to the Minister for Magic.

"And that is where your brother comes in, Mr. Holmes," she explained, addressing the younger of the two Holmeses, "and where I need your help. Now, I understand that you have not informed the Watsons or Mrs. Hudson of what occurred at the Museum of London yesterday?"

Sherlock stared at Hermione defiantly before giving a petulant, jerky nod, and the witch found herself having to hold back an ill-timed rush of amusement. Instead of commenting on Sherlock's childishness, Hermione turned to the parties in question and squared her shoulders. "Right. Well," she began, "there is no easy way to put this, so please, brace yourselves."

She paused.

"Yesterday, in the early morning, Jim Moriarty was caught on the security footage of the Museum of London."

Mary's face blanched, Mrs. Hudson stared at Hermione in unadulterated shock, and John abruptly let go of Mary's hand and staggered to his feet.

"No," he said. "No." The doctor turned to the Holmes brothers in desperation, searching their faces, hoping to find some kind of assurance that this Hermione Granger was wrong, was joking, was lying. He flinched at Sherlock's stubborn look and then again at Mycroft's cold, removed facade. Horrified, John faced Hermione once more.

"No," he repeated, his eyes wild. "It must be a fake. An impostor. Your people can do that, right? That has to be it."

Hermione just looked at him, and as he examined her expression, he saw no trace of dishonesty or relief - just compassion and shared dread.

"I'm sorry, John," she said, addressing him by his given name for the first time, "but he is back," her eyes flicked over to meet Sherlock's hardened gaze, "and I think he's been revived by one of Voldemort's old followers using Dark magic. Not to mention that whoever is responsible for raising Moriarty wants me and Mycroft involved, specifically. I'm afraid that the spectacle at the museum was almost certainly intended for us."

"You and my brother have never met before today, Ms. Granger," stated Sherlock, his blue stare razor-sharp, "so I'm assuming that it's your shared political importance that connects you?"

"That's our assumption as well," she confirmed grimly. "I was not supposed to be meeting with your brother today, Mr. Holmes, but the Ministry representative who usually attends such meetings has been missing for over a week, so when asked, I agreed to stand in for him. I also just so happen to be extremely well educated on the subject of Death magic, including the kind that would be necessary to revive Moriarty to this degree. With no other sufficiently feasible explanation for Moriarty's reappearance based on the evidence we have so far, it seems too much of a coincidence to me."

"I'm inclined to agree," said Mycroft. "Our meeting was almost definitely orchestrated. The facts of Ms. Granger's unique expertise and my connection to Moriarty through my position in the government and through you, Sherlock, makes one thing fairly clear in my mind: someone is toying with the two of us. Whoever did this wants to play a game."

"What is it with these sick bastards and their bloody shenanigans?" muttered John. Hermione gave a snort of agreement, and while the doctor was initially startled by the uncouth sound, he quickly gave the witch a closed-lip grin of camaraderie.

"I could get into that, but I'd really rather not," she said, shooting the doctor a commiserative grimace. "Besides, we have more pressing matters at stake. You see, as wretched as this whole thing is, there is something that we can do about it. However, it involves a significant invasion of privacy and a great deal of inconvenience on the part of everyone here. I am completely prepared to accept it in order to do what needs to be done, but I wanted to explain to you who I am and what kind of world you're going to be dealing with before forcing you to make any decisions." Hermione took a deep breath and sat back in her armchair, having finished her piece. "Mycroft?"

The elder Holmes rose from his seat and walked the few steps over to the fireplace. As he stared into the hearth, he began to speak.


	8. A New Tenant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter. Enjoy!

Sherlock was leaning against the bedroom door of 221C, watching in silence as Hermione unpacked her things - an entire bedroom's worth of things, in fact - from the rattiest little handbag he had seen in his life. She'd freed her hair from its twist; it now fell midway down her back, where it was beginning to curl at the tips thank to the room's humidity. The sleeves of her dress shirt were still rolled up to the elbows, giving her a carefree look marred only by the scar on her left forearm. She'd also stepped out of her shoes and was standing barefoot on the carpeted floor, toes curled slightly into the fabric for warmth.

"Why haven't you gotten rid of that thing?" Sherlock blurted out, gesturing at the tattered, threadbare, purple lump of a bag hovering in mid-air. Its mouth was stretched impossibly wide as a book entitled Arithmantic Computations, Vol. 19 pushed its way out at Hermione's prompting.

"It has seen better days, hasn't it?" the witch mused ruefully, her fingertips reaching out absentmindedly to feel the texture of the beaded detailing against worn silk and leather. A moment passed before abruptly, she seemed to remember that Sherlock was waiting on an answer. "Sentimental attachment," she clarified, glancing briefly in his direction before waving her hand so that the textbook, once free, flew towards a recently enlarged bookcase, settling itself beside the previous volume. "Despite the fact that I could easily make another of these - the enchantment is really rather simple - I can't bring myself to throw it away. It saved our skins more than once when we were on the run. In a silly way, I would feel like an ingrate if I just chucked it."

"I see," he murmured.

She spun on her heel to face him and considered the statement for a moment. "Yes, you do, don't you?" she replied, her smile taking on a pensive air. Even as she kept her gaze on Sherlock, books continued to be birthed from the handbag and to sort themselves on the walnut shelves. "In that way, at least, you're more self-aware than your brother."

Sherlock stared at her blankly and after searching his face with her eyes, Hermione nodded to herself before turning back to the room at large. "What colour, do you think?" she asked him, motioning towards the walls. "Burgundy?" Her wand flew into her hand and as she gave it a flick, the walls turned the corresponding hue. She pursed her lips and hummed reprovingly. "No; too dark. It clashes with the frame of the bookcase, to boot." She waved her wand a second time and the walls became the colour of rich cream. "Hm." She twisted around to look at Sherlock. "Still not quite right, is it?"

"Try blue," he suggested, eyeing the walls speculatively.

Her eyes lit up at the idea. A flourish later, the walls were a pale shade of periwinkle blue. After taking in the general effect, and after Hermione had turned the curtains a vibrant shade of indigo, made the carpet a dark navy blue, and wainscoted the bottom of the walls with ivory paneling, the two exchanged a satisfied glance. "Perfect," she declared cheerfully, brown eyes sweeping over the room approvingly. "Thank you."

He inclined his head and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted when footsteps were heard and Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded from the sitting room.

"Hermione, dear? Would you like a cuppa once you're done unpacking?" asked the landlady, voice raised.

"Oh, that would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, thank you! We won't be long," Hermione called back. The footsteps retreated and Hermione raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "You were saying?" she inquired.

He contemplated her. "You're trying to habituate me," he said quietly, looking around at the room, with its magically painted walls and the bag that was still unpacking itself floating idly in the middle of the space. "To magic," he added.

"Yes," she confirmed, unabashed. "I am. The faster you become comfortable with the idea of magic and the use of it around you, the easier this entire ordeal will be. Oh, and Mr. Holmes? As long as we're not around someone who isn't aware of magic, you can ask me whatever you like about it and I'll do my best to answer your questions."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. "I suppose that's reasonable. I'll have to make a list," he muttered. Then, a thought occurred to him and he fixed Hermione with a searching stare. "Has Mycroft spoken to you about Detective Inspector Lestrade and Molly Hooper?"

"No, he hasn't mentioned them," replied Hermione. "Are they going to need clearance?"

Sherlock paused. "How strict is this International Statute of yours?"

Hermione's brow furrowed and she bit her upper lip lightly before answering, "Very, if I'm being honest. But this is a matter of national security, so we can bend the rules if necessary. Do you think they would be helpful?"

"Potentially," replied Sherlock. "Not only is Molly an extremely trustworthy friend, she's an excellent special registrar. And I suppose Lestrade isn't completely worthless as a detective," Sherlock added as an afterthought, frowning. "Speaking of which; when we inevitably visit Scotland Yard, I'd suggest staying away from Philip Anderson and Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"On what grounds?" asked Hermione curiously.

Sherlock grimaced. "Incompetence. Ignorance. Idiocy. Take your pick."

Hermione chuckled. "Duly noted. Thank you for the warning."

He smirked. "Don't thank me yet, Ms. Granger. Now that you've had fair warning, I may pawn them off on you when they start to irritate me. You'll have to watch your step."

Hermione smirked right back at him, eyes alight with mischief. "Be careful, Mr. Holmes. You do that and you may suddenly find the two of them attached to you at the hip - maybe even literally if I'm in the mood for it."

Sherlock's eyes widened. Hermione laughed. "Anyways," she went on, mirth still colouring her voice, "I think you sidetracked yourself, Mr. Holmes. There was something else about DI Lestrade and Molly Hooper, was there not?"

"There was," Sherlock confirmed, sobering. "Because you'll be shadowing me and John on our cases, the three of us are going to be around Molly and Lestrade on a regular basis, and if Moriarty or your Dark wizard decides to make an appearance..."

"Ah, I see. Yes, it would make things much easier for us all if I were able to use magic around them without breaching the statute in the case of such an occurrence," reasoned Hermione. "I'm not hugely fond of modifying people's memories, either, so not having to would be a perk of getting them sanctioned," she remarked in a dark and somewhat strained tone. Sherlock glanced at her but didn't say anything, opting to store that tidbit of information away for later. "The Minister is going to be put out with me for getting so many people involved," continued Hermione as she bit the inside of her cheek, "but I think it's for the best. So: DI Lestrade, Special Registrar Molly Hooper ... anyone else?"

"No," Sherlock responded. "No, that will do."

"Good," said Hermione, relieved. "That will make it easier on me. Two more isn't so many." She gave Sherlock a wry smile. "Of course, in the past, previous ministers allowed all sorts of exceptions to the Statute for the most arbitrary reasons and left loopholes wide open for potential abuse so long as they got good money for turning a blind eye." She sighed and lifted the hand not holding her wand to the bridge of her nose, massaging it wearily. "Minister Shacklebolt has remedied that and I'm glad that he's done so, but in cases like this, it's quite frankly a pain in the arse to go through the whole bureaucratic process. Don't get me wrong; he'll approve this in a heartbeat if I tell him it's necessary, but the paperwork is going to be a nightmare."

As Hermione digressed into her tirade on ministry policy, Sherlock studied her and listened avidly. Finally, when she paused for breath, he cut in and demanded, "Ms. Granger, do you always ramble on when you're exhausted?"

The witch stood stunned into silence for a moment before bursting into incredulous laughter, bending over from the force of it. Sherlock watched her impassively, albeit for the hints of surprise and intrigue that lingered about his frozen irises.

"Oh, that's perfect," she got out between giggles. "It's going to be so lovely to be kept honest for once beyond, 'Shut up, Hermione, you're boring us,' or, 'No one cares about your do-gooder nonsense, Granger.'" Her eyes were dancing as she looked up at him from her hunched-forward stance. She shrugged lightly as she straightened up. "Yes," she answered, swallowing back a hiccough, "Yes, I always ramble on when I'm exhausted. Extensively. I hope you don't find it a nuisance, Mr. Holmes, because you're going to have to put up with it for the foreseeable future. Oh - and call me Hermione, will you? We're housemates now, and in any case, Ms. Granger is ever so bland."

Sherlock gave a curt nod. "Hermione it is, then," he allowed stiltedly. "And you can call me whatever you'd prefer. Actually - no. Anything but 'Sherly,'" he muttered. "I can't stand that wretched nickname."

His companion winced in sympathy. "I can easily agree to that. Unsurprisingly, I know how you feel. I have a group of friends who to this day insist on calling me 'Mione,' or even worse, 'Herms.'" Hermione oozed derision as she uttered the second moniker and Sherlock's lips curled in sympathy. "Given the number of times I've hexed the lot of them for it, you'd think they would have learned their lesson by now, but no." She shuddered. "No, Sherlock will suffice, I think."

Silence reigned. The two adults just stood there in the middle of the bedroom for a long moment, gauging one another as, meanwhile, a miniaturized bed popped out of the beaded bag, plopped itself down next to the bookcase, expanded to regular size, and was fitted with linens and a duvet that turned themselves ivory and indigo, respectively. Neither Hermione nor Sherlock gave it all any notice, not even when a pillow whizzed by, just barely missing the back of Sherlock's head.

"We should go meet Mrs. Hudson for tea," Hermione eventually remarked.

"Right. Yes," was Sherlock's quiet reply. He waited as Hermione hopped back into her shoes and then followed her as she swept out of the room, closing the door behind the two of them with one final glance at the myriad of objects flying about and arranging themselves. In the privacy of that instant, he allowed himself a flicker of wonder.

Hermione and Sherlock made their way out of the flat through the living room and jogged up the stairs. The door to Mrs. Hudson's flat was propped open and the sound of John's laughter and more muted, warm-sounding voices carried into the hallway. As they walked in, the duo were met with the sight of Mrs. Hudson and Mary chatting animatedly at the kitchen table, which held a tea service and a lemon loaf dusted with confectioner's sugar. John was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching and listening to the two of them fondly as he munched on the slice of loaf nestled in the napkin he was holding. Mycroft was watching the whole scene from the doorway to the sitting room, and while he wasn't smiling, there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Hermione, Sherlock; perfect timing!" Mary exclaimed when she spotted them. "You're probably just the people to ask about this."

Simultaneously, Sherlock and Hermione each raised an eyebrow. John bit back a laugh, Mary and Mrs. Hudson exchanged a subtle glance, and Mycroft's expression took a speculative turn.

"Oh, don't look like that, you two! We're just talking about names for the baby," Mary reassured the pair.

Understanding dawned on Hermione's face and she laughed as Sherlock scowled, amused just as much by the coincidence of the familiar topic as she was by his reaction to the implication.

"Oh yes; ask the people with strange names what to call your child," grumbled Sherlock. "I suppose you want to our opinions on whether you should give it an unconventional name?"

"Yes, that is the idea, Sherlock," John replied, his eyes positively howling with glee.

"Unless you want them to be given a ridiculous nickname, or to open them up to mockery from their classmates, I would refrain," Sherlock bit out acerbically.

"'Sherly' isn't so ridiculous, Sherlock," Mycroft drawled, "and if I remember correctly, it was Mummy who gave you that nickname, not your peers."

That revelation and the resulting expression on Sherlock's face drew chuckles from the others, John's the loudest among them. Hermione eyed the doctor with a look that spelled trouble.

"Oh, I know, Mary," she suddenly declared. "What about Hamish?"

John's eyes seemed to suddenly inflate three sizes. Mrs. Watson and Mary were soon wiping away tears and gasping for air thanks to their uproarious laughter, Sherlock was snickering at his best friend, and even Mycroft was tricked into a chuckle. Hermione smiled innocently at John as he gaped at her; she took a prim bite from the piece of lemon loaf she'd snagged when no one was watching.

"How did you know?" asked the doctor, stunned.

Hermione said nothing; she just chewed and swallowed the cake-like pudding, maintaining a demure facade even while her eyes shone with mirth.

"This is delicious, Mrs. Hudson," she commented, holding up the slice, her eyes never leaving John's face.


	9. Beyond a Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely kudos and a special shout-out to saraste, who continues to leave me the most encouraging comments :) You are wonderful. 
> 
> Here is the next chapter of ABCON and our first real foray into the darkness. I hope you enjoy it.

After they'd chatted for awhile and everyone had finished their tea and polished off the last of the lemon loaf, it was decided that they needed to get back to their daily goings-on. Mycroft's phone had been on the fritz for about twenty minutes, Hermione had a whole slew of things to take care of, the boys had a series of appointments with potential clients later in the evening, Mary needed to rest, and Mrs. Hudson had to close Speedy's Café, one of her employees having prearranged to leave early that night. As such, with handshakes and hugs and kisses all around, the group dispersed, departing flat 221A.

Having said her goodbyes, Hermione rounded the corner of the ground floor and walked over to 221C, shutting the door quietly behind her with a murmured, "Colloportus," and a flick of her fingers. She quickly descended the stairs, and then stood in the doorframe at the edge of the space in front of her, surveying the untouched sitting room and contemplating the changes she needed to make. The room was dreary and dust-laden; its carpet was water-stained and there was mould in one corner of the ceiling.

Not to mention the fireplace, thought Hermione. It's practically crumbling. I'm going to need to do some substantial work before it can be connected to the Floo network.

Hermione sighed and waved her hand, her wand shooting promptly into its grasp at the nonverbal command. With a series of swishes of the beloved instrument, Hermione transfigured her dress shirt and trousers into a loose-fitting singlet and a comfortable pair of jeans. While she focussed on those adjustments, her hair neatly braided itself into a single plait down her back.

Satisfied, the witch tucked her wand behind her ear in a mannerism she'd picked up from an old friend, proceeding to lace her fingers together and crack her knuckles.

Here goes nothing, thought Hermione with a grim, determined smile.

Three hours later, said woman was passed out on her bed fully clothed, a half-finished mug of chamomile tea cooling on the coaster atop her bedside table. Even in sleep, she wore a contented smile, pleased with the night's progress.

***

As Hermione slept, Sherlock and John were sharing a stiff drink two storeys up, done with all of their appointments for the day.

"Magic," John was saying as he stared into the fireplace with bleary eyes. "Can you believe it, Sherlock? Right under our noses for so many years and we had no bloody idea." The doctor took a swig from his glass, turning his eyes on his friend. "How much more of it is there, that's real? Vampires? Werewolves? Mermaids? The bloody Loch Ness monster?"

"The Loch Ness monster," Sherlock repeated darkly, grimacing at his companion. "It's ridiculous, John. This whole ordeal is ridiculous. 48 hours ago, the world had order, tangible order, and now I find out that that order does not in fact exist, but that the laws of physics are a fiction and that there is a whole other entity in the mix, one that appears to be multifaceted and infinitely complex!" Without realizing it, Sherlock had risen from his chair and set his drink down precariously on its armrest, beginning to gesticulate emphatically as he paced in front of the hearth. He continued, "And there must have been signs, John, signs of their community, signs of their existence. Signs that I misattributed, putting it all down to the homeless, or gang activity, or those science-fiction, fantasy conventions. I dismissed them, didn't see the correlation. But of course I didn't see the correlation, because it's utterly absurd—oh, I want a cigarette."

John scowled and was about to chastise Sherlock when the latter waved him off, rolling his eyes. "I said that I want one, John, not that I need one or that I'm going to go and get one." The detective's arm swung like a pendulum to snatch his tumbler off the upholstery and bring it to his lips. He took a long drink, draining the last of his brandy.

"Sure you did," John replied, tone sarcastic, wary, and unamused.

"You and Mrs. Hudson stole the last of my stash a month ago, anyways," muttered Sherlock distractedly, not even registering the doctor's rebuke, too agitated to focus on anything other than his jumbled, frantic thoughts. His eyes were gleaming a feverish orange in the light of the flames, his jaw was clenched, and his movements were becoming wilder with every passing moment. "Blast it! Blast it all. This changes everything! So much that I thought I knew may well be wrong. I have to re-evaluate it all!" He pitched his empty tumbler across the room in frustration, where it shattered against the yellow smiley face spray-painted on the wall.

Then, out of the blue, an agonized scream sounded from downstairs. Sherlock whipped around to face John, who had jumped to his feet, face pale.

"Hermione?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, sweeping over to the mantel of the fireplace to grab his pistol. As soon as he had it, the two men turned and ran out of 221B, footsteps thundering down the steps as they rushed to reach their new housemate.

***

Hermione sat up with a gasp, shivering and exhaling mist as she panted, her head snapping from side to side to assess her whereabouts. Her eyes widened.

She was in the Death Chamber of the Department of Mysteries, sitting right in the middle of the Dais of the Veil. Immediately, Hermione tried to back away from the fluttering, grey curtain and the voices that whispered inaudibly behind it, but her limbs refused to respond to her will. A moment later, as though possessed, Hermione's body was forced to stand by some unknown power, and involuntarily, she began to approach the Veil.

Hermione murmured a list of spells with increasing desperation, casting repelling and immobilizing hexes on herself to no avail. Still, she walked forward, and the whispers grew louder, hissing and cocooning her in an aura of staggering anxiety. In no time at all, Hermione was centimetres away from the Veil, her feet showing no sign of slowing. Hermione closed her eyes as her heart pounded loudly in her chest, bracing herself for whatever was to come. Her right foot came off the ground, and she took a final step forward.

The feeling of passing through the Veil was not incomparable to having a ghost pass through you, Hermione noted somewhere in the back of her mind, even as a paralyzing kind of fear overtook her. Physically, it was as though she'd been submerged in a pool of freezing water, buoyancy and all, but had lost the need to breathe. Despite her curiosity, Hermione kept her eyes firmly shut, hoping that so long as she did not see what was behind the Veil, she might have a chance to return to the other side.

"Hermione Granger." A familiar voice whispered the name in her ear and her conviction was forgotten. Hermione's eyelids flew open, and suddenly, there in front of her was Sirius Black.

He looked exactly as she'd last seen him, dressed in the same clothes as he'd worn the day of the battle, the day that he'd died. Hermione had the impression that every single line on his face, every hair on his head, was as it had been that day. There was, however, one significant change. Sirius's irises were no longer grey—they were an eerie, otherworldly silver that swirled around his pupil, a violent, molten ocean trapped inside the small space.

Without meaning to, Hermione spoke, addressing the apparition of her friend's dead godfather. "You are not Sirius Black," she declared, her voice steady in spite of her fear, confident in the deduction.

"No," the figure responded in Sirius's tenor, but as its lips moved, the voice sounded just beside Hermione's ear, and she could feel a cold breath against the curve of her neck. She shuddered.

"No," the figure repeated. "You are correct. We are not Sirius Black—not just Sirius Black. We are the Dead. And you are Hermione Granger, Mistress of Death."

Hermione stared into the silver depths, shocked. "Mistress of Death?" she asked, disbelieving. "I thought Harry was Death's master, not me."

"Harry Potter was Master of Death but for a moment. He destroyed the Deathstick, and with it, his claim to the title. But you," Sirius's mouth smiled and the sight sent a shiver down Hermione's spine, "you, Hermione Granger, did not require the Hallows. You discovered the secret on your own. You nearly brought him back." The body gestured to itself.

Hermione blanched. Not good, she thought.

"Yes," she admitted. "I nearly did. But I knew that it was wrong. I knew that he had moved on, just like all of those before him. His time had long passed, he was already settled in the Afterlife. To bring him back would have been an aberration. I destroyed my research, I have buried the knowledge in the deepest recesses of my mind—"

"Relax, Mistress," chided Sirius's voice; although, the more Hermione listened to it, the less it sounded like Sirius. It was multi-layered; Sirius's voice was the loudest, but there were definitely others there, women and children among them. Despite the eeriness, the sound entranced Hermione and she found it oddly soothing.

"Death has no quarrel with you. Just the opposite. You had the ultimate power in your hands, and you still do, but you did not and do not wield it, because you understand. But there is another who has ventured into the arts and magicks of Death, and whereas you have honoured them, he has profoundly abused them."

"A Necromancer," breathed Hermione. "I was right."

Sirius's form nodded. "Yes," it replied. "One of the Thief's soldiers."

"The Thief?" asked Hermione. The figure just stared at her, waiting. She thought for a moment and then it hit her. "Voldemort?" she asked.

The voice hissed. "The Thief," it insisted.

"Alright," she agreed, "which one? Which soldier?" Those silver eyes pierced her, but the voice did not speak. "Why can you not tell me?" she demanded.

"He is not known to us by a mortal name; it is not important. You are important; Harry Potter was important; the Thief was only important in his role as Thief. Like him, the Necromancer is a fraud, and only known for the violation he has committed. We do not know his name; only the feeling behind it matters."

"What is the feeling?" Hermione pleaded for an hint, grasping at straws.

There was a pause. "Bad faith," the voices said, a thoughtful quality to their tone. Hermione's eyebrows furrowed.

"Bad faith?" she questioned. The figure shook its head in affirmation once more. She sighed. "Alright," she said, resigned. "I will think on it."

"You must do so quickly, Mistress," urged the figure, the chorus of voices becoming even more apparent as the volume of their speech rose. "One of us has already been woken, a dangerous one. But there will be others, some the same and some not. The Dead are no longer safe. The Mistress's friends, Living and Dead, are in danger."

The finality of the last statement was not lost on Hermione. She took a step forward. "Thank you," she said, "for the warning. I'll do my best to protect you."

"You must," the voices agreed, and their fear washed over Hermione in heavy, nauseating waves. "Because if not, Mistress, the Land of the Living will burn. And the Necromancer, the false Master—he would have you all perish in the flames."

Suddenly, Hermione could no longer see Sirius; an onslaught of images, sensations, and emotions had taken over her sensory receptors. One by one, they assaulted her, until she sank to her knees, overwhelmed. Rows of tombstones in a graveyard shrouded by elm trees; an insidious chill that sunk into her very bones; suffocating, all-encompassing grief; a familiar emerald green, fading; sheer, undiluted anguish; red-haired corpses, littering the grass-covered ground; a series of gunshots and a high-pitched shriek; a blue, woolen scarf, absorbing a dark crimson liquid that could only be blood; an ornate mask in the shape of a skull; and searing, blazing fire, yellow-orange-red-white-blue, and agony, complete and utter agony, a screaming, blistering, burning pain, pain that would put the Cruciatus to shame—

***

BAM!

Hermione startled awake at the noise, wand at the ready, her heart thudding violently.

After a long moment, her brain finally computed what she was seeing: John Watson was frozen in front of her, looking cross-eyed at the wand-tip pressing into the skin between his eyebrows. Sherlock Holmes was standing behind him, eyes wide and wary, holding a lowered pistol; the bedroom door was still swinging behind him.

Hermione dropped her wand, mortified.

"I'm so sorry, John," she stammered, reaching out a trembling hand. "I forgot the Silencing Charm on my room, didn't I?"

He took the offered hand and gave it a small squeeze, eyeing her worriedly. "Yes, I think so," he replied. "Are you alright, Hermione?"

She laughed, and the sound was hysterical. "No, I'm afraid not," she mused through uncontrollable giggles. "I'm rather shaken, actually. I think I might be in shock. Do me a favour, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock came forward, nodding silently. "Go into my closet—you'll see that I've converted it. On the wall to your right," she had to pause to catch her breath, "on the wall to your right, there will be a large cabinet stocked with different potions. Find the one labelled "Calming Draught" and bring it in here, please. I would do it myself, but I fear that my magic may be a little erratic at the moment." She giggled at that, but her eyes were tearful and there was a fear and a pain in them that spoke of the degree of her distress.

Sherlock turned on his heel to do as she bade without argument, a little stunned at having seen the formidable woman so rattled. He paid vague attention to John and Hermione's murmurs as he strode to the other end of the room and opened the closet door.

Upon seeing the interior, he stopped short for a moment, his eyebrows rising in surprise and admiration. The tiny closet, as Sherlock knew, given that he'd inspected 221C on a few separate occasions, had been barely large enough for a few dozen items of clothing and perhaps a rack of shoes. Now, it was a spacious laboratory, and at its centre, sitting on an island with a granite countertop, were three raised cauldrons; two of them were being heated with what looked like Bunsen burners, and the third was covered by a shimmering, translucent dome. Otherwise, the counter was clear—immaculately so, even. To the left, there was an entire wall of tiny drawers, each labelled in neat cursive. They appeared to contain ingredients for potions, which had been arranged from left to right and then top to bottom in alphabetical order.

Sherlock's eyes swept greedily over the labels. "Aconite/monkshood," read one drawer; "Hellebore," read another, further down the wall. "Pickled slugs," had Sherlock snorting in part-disgust, part-amused fascination.

"Sherlock?" called John's voice. "Mind hurrying it up in there?"

The detective started and then turned his attention away from the ingredients wall, chagrined. "Right, yes, just a moment," he replied loudly. He approached the opposite wall, opening the cabinet that Hermione had mentioned. He scanned the uppermost shelves, assuming that the alphabetical organization scheme would carry over to the assortment of bottles. As usual, he was correct; the desired draught was on the second shelf from the top in a purple decanter. He grasped it gingerly, as though afraid it might explode if it was shaken—because maybe it would, how was he to know?—and withdrew it from the cabinet cautiously before making his way back into the bedroom.

Hermione, past giggles and onto shivering now, was tucked into John's side, a blanket wrapped around her bare shoulders. Her teeth chattered even as the doctor rubbed her arms, trying to create some heat with the friction. Sherlock knelt down in front of Hermione, removing the stopper from the decanter and offering it to her. She reached out to take it, but her hand shook so badly that she had trouble getting a grip on the glass, and had Sherlock's hand not been outstretched, the decanter likely would have tumbled to the ground.

Hermione blushed pink, the colour in stark contrast to her pale complexion. "S-s-sorry," she managed. "C-c-c-could you p-please...?"

Sherlock took her hand and wrapped it gently around the glass, keeping his fingers over hers to help her raise the mouth of the decanter to her lips. Together, they tilted the bottle so that the potion poured out gently onto her tongue. Hermione swallowed two large gulps of the stuff before motioning that she'd had enough; Sherlock immediately lowered the decanter for her.

After a few seconds, Hermione felt the tremors begin to subside and the warmth return to her extremities. It suddenly became much easier for her to think clearly, and the emotions that had been kicking her systems into overdrive were lowering to tolerable levels.

Once she felt she'd regained nearly full control of herself, Hermione spoke. "Thank you, John, thank you, Sherlock," she said to them with a faint smile. "I'm feeling much better now."

"Good," said John, and Sherlock echoed his approval. The doctor arranged Hermione's blanket around her a little more snugly before moving towards the foot of the bed to give her some space. Sherlock took his cue and moved back, getting up and pulling a blue armchair over to the bed. He placed it in front of Hermione, although not too close, and then sat down, watching her carefully. Her lips quirked as she watched the two men, fondness dancing in her eyes.

There was silence for a moment.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked Hermione quietly, "Or does that not usually help you?"

Hermione shook her head, looking from him to Sherlock with a grim set to her mouth. "It wasn't a nightmare," she told them. She reached over and grabbed the mug sitting on her bedside table, bringing it to her nose and taking a whiff of its contents. "Had to be sure," she muttered. She looked up, meeting Sherlock's curious gaze. "Because we went into my past this afternoon, I thought that it would be best if I took a Dreamless Sleep Potion to fend off the nightmares. I get them every now and then—PTSD," she admitted, glancing at John. The doctor grimaced in sympathy.

"But if you weren't dreaming," Sherlock cut in, "then why were you screaming in your sleep?"

Hermione frowned, a sliver of fear flitting across her face. "I was sent a telepathic message," she explained to them, wary. "Because of what I do at the Ministry, I'm exposed to a lot of different types of magic. Because of that exposure, and the constancy of it, I'm prone to certain...side effects. Increased sensitivity to telepathy and to anything to do with mental or subconscious communication is one of them."

John looked confused, but Sherlock understood what she was saying and accepted it readily enough. "And who sent the message?" he asked her.

She gnawed at her lip for a moment, murmuring with reluctance, "You may not believe me if I tell you."

He snorted quietly. "After everything that's happened today? Try me." John glanced at Sherlock, surprise and a touch of pride in his eyes.

"I'm in too, Hermione," said the doctor.

Hermione gauged the duo's honesty, and once her skepticism was assuaged, she sighed her acceptance.

"It was from the Dead," she told them, her exhaustion seeping into the words. "I've had brief exchanges with those on the Other Side before, but nothing even close to this magnitude, and never initiated by them. They needed to warn me about how serious this is, about what will happen if we don't catch the person responsible for raising Moriarty. I can't go too far into the specifics of what they said, because they proved their legitimacy with secrets that I'm forbidden to speak of, secrets that no one other than me is privy to. But it is definitely them. A message like that cannot be faked. The emotion was too raw."

Hermione stared into Sherlock's irises, their cold blue plunging her into the memory of the encounter.

"I'm afraid," she said quietly, her voice a single notch above a whisper. She wasn't really speaking to either Sherlock or John, but instead simply confessing her thoughts aloud. "I'm afraid because they are afraid. The Dead are frightened. For us and for themselves." Disbelief took over her features. "And the future that they showed me," she snapped out of the trance, focusing first on Sherlock and then looking over at John, "that was what made me scream." Anguish pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over not just as her tears, but into the very air itself. Sherlock could feel it coming off of her; somehow, she was projecting her emotions. She stared at him beseechingly, and he found that he could not look away.

"That," she said softly, "is not a world I want to see."

The men stared at her, stupefied.

"Should I even ask?" Sherlock eventually questioned Hermione, matching the quietness of her voice.

She smiled at him fondly, eyes wet. "No," she said, and she leaned forward to put a hand on his knee. "No." Her gaze was warm. "It's enough that I'm burdened with it. No; I need your mind clear. That goes for the both of you," she added, reaching over to squeeze John's hand once more. "I have no doubt that you'll play your part in this, Dr. Watson," she told him sincerely, albeit darkly. "I need the two of you fresh."

All of the sudden, Hermione perked up slightly and a hint of mischief lightened her features. "Oh, I know just the thing," she said, the beginnings of excitement in her voice. "I even have enough Hangover Potion available for the three of us, so there's no obstacle to it, either.

"Would the two of you be up to trying a little bit of Firewhiskey?"


	10. A Night Spent with Blishen's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Back after a long hiatus!! Life has been rough and I've been working on other projects, but I've finally returned to continue with this one.
> 
> Here's the next chapter. Enjoy!

Hermione's newly renovated sitting room was cast in the red-golden glow of the fire, framed by a mantel of white marble. She, John, and Sherlock sat comfortably in the dim light, drinking their way to the bottom of a bottle of Blishen's. They'd been at it for over an hour, exchanging tales of their adventures, and while they'd initially talked about the more tumultuous events they'd had the misfortune to experience, the Firewhisky soon directed their conversation into a rather lighthearted territory. Hermione had just finished telling John and Sherlock about the chaos that was the reception at Harry and Ginny's wedding, during which one of the tamest things to happen was Ron getting so utterly plastered that he'd passed out face-first into a bowl of punch. That story had earned her a good deal of laughter from her companions; but once they'd quietened, the doctor's expression had turned somewhat nostalgic.

"The last time that Sherlock and I got plastered was my stag night," John told Hermione, reminiscent. He paused to sip at the amber liquid in his tumbler and grimaced as it burnt its way down his throat before settling warmly in his chest. "We went pub crawling," he added, his nose scrunched.

"Pub crawling?" laughed Hermione incredulously. "The two of you?"

"What do you mean, 'the two of us?'" the doctor grumbled, mock-affronted.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "I mean that you don't exactly seem the type."

"Well, we did, I mean, we are!" John protested, and Sherlock nodded with the kind of earnestness that can only be achieved through inebriation. "Sherlock even made a plan—tell her, Sherlock!"

"I did." Sherlock nodded solemnly. "The pub crawl was based on the cases that we'd solved together. A stop on every street we'd found a corpse—I believe that's how Molly put it, actually."

"Delightful," Hermione snorted, wry humour dancing with flicker of the firelight in her eyes. "That does sound a bit more like the pair of you, though, I'll give you that."

John scowled. "That's not what I was talking about," he told Sherlock. "I meant the alcohol."

"Ah yes! The alcohol." Sherlock nodded emphatically once more. "I had Molly help me calculate our ideal alcohol intake, which turned out to be 443.7ml per stop, taken at specific intervals—"

"He had these massive graduated cylinders that he made the barmen fill—"

"And it was going so well before John—"

"I snuck an extra shot into Sherlock's drink!" John whispered loudly to Hermione. "And I had one, too!"

"Oh no," cried Hermione, biting back a giggle. "And then?"

"And then Sherlock almost got into a fight over ash," John chuckled. "I had to drag him out of the bar; he just kept flailing and shouting, 'I know ash! I know ash!'"

Hermione laughed delightedly, her eyes sparkling as she pictured the general ridiculousness of the situation. John smiled in triumph while Sherlock frowned.

"But I do!" the detective insisted. "243 types! It's on my website."

"I'm sure it is," Hermione assured him, her expression dead serious even as the firelight twinkled in her eyes, and she reached over to pat his hand gently. "I would actually rather like to see it, but that's probably not wise. Magic and electronics don't tend to mix well."

"How intriguing," said Sherlock, a speculative glint in his eyes as he considered Hermione with sudden enthusiasm. "I wonder, would you—"

"No, Sherlock," John interrupted with a glare that approximated sternness. "Whatever it is, I think it can wait until we're all significantly less pissed. Sorry, Hermione," the doctor apologized sheepishly.

"For the profanity or for Sherlock? Because I don't have a problem with either," replied Hermione with a smile. "Quite the contrary, in fact. But never mind that, you weren't done your story," she reminded them.

"Oh!" John exclaimed. "No, we got sidetracked there, didn't we? Where were we...the ash?"

"The ash," Sherlock confirmed before taking a swig of Firewhisky, staring intently at the contents of his glass once he'd brought it back to his armrest, admiring the way the light of the fire set the amber liquid aglow like molten lava.

"So," John continued, snickering, "once I'd gotten him out of there, we came back here and sat on the stairs until Mrs. Hudson made us go up to the flat. And she was surprised to see us, because it turned out we'd only been out for two hours!"

"And to make things worse, we had a client come in when we were both still very much intoxicated," Sherlock told Hermione. "In retrospect, perhaps not one of my finest moments."

"Oh, you think, Sherlock?!" scoffed John as Hermione held the impulse to laugh at bay once again. "She wanted us to investigate a man that she'd been dating who'd just disappeared into thin air," John went on, leaning towards Hermione confidentially. "We called him the Mayfly Man. Anyway—we went over to the flat he'd been renting and the landlord let us in to have a look-see—but we were so pissed that we completely bungled it, and Sherlock ended up hurling all over the carpet!"

Hermione couldn't suppress her amusement a moment longer, and, arms wrapped tightly around her ribs, she burst into boisterous trills of mirth. John was right there with her, guffawing away as Sherlock tried his best to scowl at the two of them. Before long though, he joined in, and the three laughed until their sides hurt and their eyes watered, egged on by the sympathetic roar of the Firewhisky in their veins.

Eventually, they settled back down, plagued by only the occasional, belated chuckle or giggle, and Hermione asked, "So what happened after Sherlock managed to literally spill his guts in front of your client and the mystery man's landlord?"

"Dunno, really," John admitted sheepishly, "except that we woke up in a holding cell the next morning. And it was Greg Lestrade who came to get us out."

Hermione let a few more giggles out before she suddenly clutched at her abs in pain and gave an energetic hiccough. John and Sherlock chuckled at the noise and Hermione grinned, her pink cheeks flushing a darker hue. "Firewhisky is strong stuff," she said defensively by way of explanation. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as if to ask, "Really?" and John just snorted. Hermione responded very maturely by sticking her tongue out at them and then smiling impishly.

"But in any case," said Hermione, "—wow, you two. Just...wow. I bet Lestrade had a field day, given everything the pair of you put him through on a routine basis."

Sherlock, having just emptied what little had been left in his tumbler, shook his head vigorously, his eyes squinting as the alcohol seared its way down his esophagus. "Graham enjoyed it far too much, if you ask me," mumbled the detective, his words slurring slightly.

"Didn't John just say that his—Lestrade's—name is Greg?" asked Hermione, bemused.

"Sherlock never gets it right," John explained, his eyes glazing over as he stared into the flames above the hearth. "Does it on purpose, if you ask me."

"No, no, no! It's just not important," Sherlock groaned blearily. "He's Lestrade, 'sss good enough. What's it matter if he's Graham or Gavin or Greg?" His mouth pursed around the name as though it were a sour grape.

Hermione tsked, trying to look stern and failing miserably as a grin parted her lips. "You should call your friend by his proper name, Sherlock," she chastised him, though the grin took any of the bite from her tone. "I'm sure you have it stored in that impressive brain of yours somewhere."

"Wouldn't be so sure of that," John muttered. "He deleted primary school stuff 'bout the solar system to make room for things like ash and pollen in his stupid, brilliant mind palace. Didn't even know the Earth goes 'round the sun!"

Hermione's eyes widened in disbelief and Sherlock groaned a second time. "Are you ever going to let that go, John?" he grumbled sullenly, raising his glass to his lips only to remember that he'd already finished it, and that the bottle of Blishen's was empty, too. The detective rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Hermione laughed a little too exuberantly at their antics and she seemed aware of it because once she'd stopped, she stumbled to her feet and held up a finger.

"I'm going to get us some water," she announced, "because I need some. And if I need some, then you two definitely do."

She chuckled as they shouted garbled protests at her, already halfway to the kitchen by the time her jibe had registered with the soldier and the sleuth.

Hermione went to the kitchen, summoning her wand to her palm and using it to cast several nonverbal charms in rapid succession. Out from a cupboard shot a large wooden tray, and onto it flew three glasses and a pitcher, the latter of which began to fill with water thanks to a silent Aguamenti on Hermione's part. Not entirely happy with the meagre offerings on the tray, Hermione conjured a ceramic bowl and summoned a bag of crisps from her pantry. With a flick of her wand, the bag sharply split itself open and tipped over into the bowl, pouring out a generous helping of crisps, rolling up its own top, and returning to its shelf in the pantry when it'd finished.

With a satisfied nod, Hermione levitated the tray and charmed it to follow in her wake before turning—a little wobbily—and heading back into the sitting room.

"I come bearing gifts," she joked, focused on setting her tray down on the coffee table and pouring water for the three of them; but when she looked up to grin at her companions, she discovered that the illustrious Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were passed out cold in their armchairs.

The witch smiled fondly, rolling her eyes. She conjured a pair of patchwork quilts reminiscent of Molly Weasley's work, draped one over each of the drunken, exhausted men, and then proceeded to throw herself down onto the sofa and stretch out like a cat, wordlessly Accioing one of the water glasses over and taking a long drink. The liquid was cool and refreshing, and it sobered her slightly.

"Oh, Merlin," she sighed under her breath as she contemplated Sherlock and John's sleeping forms with resignation in her eyes. "You two are going to be just as much trouble as Harry and Ron, aren't you?"

***

When John and Sherlock awoke, it was to the painful pounding of the pulse in their temples and an insidious kind of nausea that worsened as they became more and more alert.

As soon as he got over the sheer dryness of his mouth, John started cursing a blue streak. Sherlock groaned in agony as his eyes began to flutter open, wincing against even the soft, natural light of his surroundings.

"Shhh," hushed a quiet, soothing voice; Hermione's, Sherlock registered. He felt a small, glass vial being pressed into his palm, as did John, and Hermione's voice murmured with a hint of amusement, "Drink up, boys. I would suggest downing it in one go. It works wonders, but its taste is rather foul."

In too much pain to protest, both men tipped the vials back and gulped their contents. John had to clap a hand to his mouth to stop himself from vomiting the liquid back up as, despite his best efforts, his tastebuds picked up on its flavour. Sherlock didn't have quite such a violent reaction; he simply grimaced as the rank mixture slid down his throat.

They both looked up to see Hermione's brown eyes watching and sparkling with a combination of mirth and sympathy. "Disgusting, I know," she mused, "but you'll thank me in a minute or so. That's an improved version of the Remedy for Veisalgia, more commonly known as the Hangover Cure or simply, Hangover Potion."

"Bloody, buggering..." John trailed off as Hermione pressed a tall glass of water into his hand, taking the vial away from him and doing the same for Sherlock. They watched her through squinted eyes as she flicked her free hand and the vials drifted through the air and back into her potions lab, before a soft clink and the rush of running water could be heard.

John decided not to comment on that, opting instead to shake his head and take a gulp of the water to rinse away the horrid aftertaste of the potion. Sherlock did the same, staring with a hungry curiosity in the direction of the lab.

"Can all magic users do that?" he asked as soon as he downed the water, his voice nonetheless rasping with sleep.

Hermione didn't bother asking for clarification. "No," was her simple response. "They can't. Some can master nonverbal spells. Most can't cast without their wands, but I...well." She smiled. "Let's just say that I had some innate ability to begin with, and then went through some intensive training on top of that."

Sherlock nodded, and there was a smug kind of quality about his expression as he did so. Clearly, the witch noted with affection, what she'd revealed wasn't very far off of what he'd hypothesized. "And this training was part of your becoming an Unspeakable?" he pushed, knowing full well that he was prying into a topic that was off-limits and curious to see how the witch would handle his nosiness.

Hermione met his question with stony silence, though her eyes retained their warmth. The rest of her features, however, closed off entirely, and the abruptness of the reaction made Sherlock smirk knowingly. He nodded once more, settling back into his armchair. His mind was mercifully clear and thus, he was free to plunge deep into speculation over the specifics of Hermione's work in this so-called Ministry of Magic and its Department of Mysteries, and what they did that was so important as to warrant magically enforced secrecy from its employees.

As Sherlock ruminated over those thoughts, Hermione slyly summoned the empty glass from his relaxed grip and sent it off in the direction of the kitchen; John's, however, she collected by hand, reciprocating the grateful grin with which the doctor graced her.

"Thanks for that, Hermione," he said, "I'm feeling much better now." A disturbing thought suddenly prodded its way to the forefront of John's mind and his complexion paled drastically. "Er, incidentally," asked the doctor, looking really quite perturbed, "what was actually in that potion?"

Hermione's eyes widened slightly, and then she let out a little, nervous laugh. "Well, Dr. Watson," she began, her tone playful, "as much as I admire what I'm assuming is your professional curiosity in regards to what ingredients are involved in curing a hangover—" she raised a brow, seeking confirmation, and John nodded vigorously in reassurance, "—I would put forward this question for consideration before divulging said information: given your reaction to the taste of the potion, are you absolutely, positively, 100-percent-sure that you would like to know?"

What little blood had been left in John's face drained from it, and slowly he shook his head. "Right," he uttered faintly, "never mind that, then."

Hermione turned away to send the doctor's glass after Sherlock's, using the fact that her face was hidden from John's view to bite her lip in a desperate attempt to stifle her bubbling mirth. Using her Occlumency skills, she had her expression smoothed out in no time and when she faced the doctor again, Hermione was serene.

"So, John, Sherlock," she said, snapping the latter out of his trance, "what's the plan for today?"

John looked at Sherlock in askance; thanks to some strings that Mycroft had pulled, he was on paid leave from his job at the clinic and was thus at the detective's disposal for the indefinite future. He and Mary were going to be living in John's old room in 221B, which Hermione had offered to, as she put it, "renovate." Although initially uncertain of the idea, the couple had agreed to the inconvenience when their newfound friend stressed to them that said arrangement would be safer for Mary and hence, the baby, and that she would be glad to cast some spells around their temporary living space so as to ensure their privacy.

"We'll stop by Scotland Yard and St. Bart's to introduce you to Lestrade and Molly," Sherlock told her after a moment of contemplation. He grimaced as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Lestrade's been pestering me about a case that is clearly no more than a five," the detective sighed. "He'll probably try to force it on me at the station."

Hermione snorted. "That's all right, Mr. Holmes, I'll tell him that you have bigger fish to fry," she said, her tone chiding. Sherlock didn't seem to notice it and instead took her words at face value.

"Would you?" he asked, though it was clear he didn't expect an answer. "He never seems to listen to me."

John's eyebrows flew upwards, encroaching on his forehead's territory. "Never—never seems to listen to you?! Sherlock, you have a job because all Lestrade does is listen to you!"

Sherlock waved the doctor off, unconcerned. "I'm not talking about the cases," he said impatiently, "I'm talking about everything else, John."

John started to protest that comment as well but Hermione cut him off, glaring at the pair of them. "All right, you two, enough!" she scolded, and suddenly the air seemed to crackle with energy. Hermione's irises took on that amber glow that the Holmes brothers had noticed the night before when she'd gotten angry about the horcruxes. The general effect was intimidating enough to make John and Sherlock forget about their brewing argument and instead direct their attention to the words being spoken by the woman standing in front of them.

Hermione, arms akimbo, glowered down at the duo. "I didn't give the pair of you a potion to clear your heads so that you could spend all day bickering," she said, exasperated. "Now: march yourselves up to 221B, clean up, put on some fresh clothes, and meet me at the door in twenty minutes. We can grab something at that cafe across the street before we head to Scotland Yard."

The detective and the doctor stared at the witch, flabbergasted.

Hermione sighed. "Well, come on, then," she insisted, her eyes flashing bright amber. "Step to!"

The two men watched her warily as they rose from their chairs, stifling groans as they felt all of the kinks in their muscles make themselves known. Never taking their eyes off of Hermione until they were at the stairs, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes quickly made their way out of her flat, unwilling to provoke the witch's wrath.

As soon as she heard the door at the top of the staircase swing shut, Hermione let her eyes return to their normal colour and stopped projecting her aura. As she walked over to her bedroom to begin to follow her own directives, she allowed herself to picture the looks on the men's faces as they'd practically scampered from the room, and she had herself a good chuckle.


End file.
